


Shield Raised

by TrulyCertain



Series: Shield Raised [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, Tumblr made me do it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 56,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Herald is rather... odd. Certainly, Dorian's not sure what to make of him. A Marcher nearly-templar, a Tevinter altus, and a slow understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rejection

 There are, as always, it seems, a million things to do in Haven. Josephine hurries towards the Chantry, the wind attempting yet again to steal her papers, wishing her stockings kept out the cold a little more; she’d thought herself well-prepared when she left Orlais, but she was obviously mistaken.

It’s only her years in the Game that allow her to spot it behind the wall of the Chantry: a flash of silver, a spot of brightness amongst the snow. (It’s always useful to see a knife as it is coming.) It is, she realises after a moment, a shield. She looks again and sees brown hair, part-shaven, and armour.

The Herald.

She approaches cautiously. This is a quiet corner, and he was half-hidden; he likely doesn’t desire disturbances. 

Trevelyan has barely spoken to anyone since he arrived. At the war table he simply stands and listens, those unnervingly blue eyes glinting in the darkness. When they have spoken, he has been polite but distant, offering little of himself. He fights like a chevalier, planting himself as if he is determined to _be_ a shield rather than just wield one, but has none of their straight-backed pride, the arrogance that makes them both so detested and so popular. He is more desperate, too; he fights as if each moment is his last, uncaring of any potential audience. It should be brutish, but she respected it even as she wondered where it came from.

The Chantry, she learned eventually, from one of Leliana’s files. He ran before his final vows. He claimed his family had given him leave and then fled for the nearest ship. Clever, to capitalise on the Trevelyan name. He must be persuasive, or at the very least a fine liar, but she has seen none of that here. _Taciturn_ would be an understatement.

He leans heavily against the wall, his shield placed next to him, resting on his leg. He is holding a piece of parchment. At first she thinks that it seems flimsy in such large, scarred hands, but then she realises those hands are shaking, and that it might not be the letter which is fragile at all.

“Herald?” she tries, tentative.

He doesn’t look up. When he speaks, his voice is soft, prim around the vowels, a noble through and through - surprisingly gentle for a man who looks as he does. “Please… not that.”

She finds herself stepping closer. “Is something wrong?”

“They disowned me.”

Ah. Leliana had mentioned it as she’d sifted through the intercepted letters, passing her a parchment with the Trevelyan seal. “This might be one for you, Josie. How do you think he’ll react?” After reading it, they’d put it with his personal correspondence without comment, leaving it for him to find. It wasn’t their place to interfere, not yet.

The way he speaks: it should be matter-of-fact, but there is pain in it. It is barely hidden. He’d be torn apart at court. She has pretended not to see far too much for the sake of peace or of diplomacy - but this she can see. Here, there is little point in pretence when kindness will do just as well. She takes a place next to him, despite the fact that this is silk and there will be moss, and damp, and dust… She cannot bring herself to care. “I see. Are you close?”

He shakes his head. There is a movement in his face, and she realises that he is almost, but not quite, smiling. “I’m an embarrassment.”

“I’m sure it can’t be - “

“It’s here in writing.” His eyes are still on the letter, and his face is bleak as he continues, without prompting, “I’m a false prophet. A blight on the family name.”

“I…” The words will come, she is sure of it. She has prepared for this moment. Even so, Haven seems as if it is constantly trying to tip her off-balance. “They are pious, are they not?”

At last, he looks at her. He seems to realise he’s here, that he’s speaking to her, and she wonders for a moment if he’ll retreat and pretend at blankness again - but instead he nods. “There’s the Chantry, there’s the family name, and then there’s me. Perhaps there’s me.” He raises his eyes to the sky. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

She sighs. “Andraste asked us for unity. It seems they may have missed that verse.”

“ _Blessed are the peacekeepers.”_ It’s rough, with a half-laugh contained in it, and he looks at her pointedly. Those eyes… Perhaps it’s simply the way he paints them, but she wonders how much they see. She almost wants to shrink underneath their scrutiny. “The Chantry should approve of you.”

She finds herself smiling at that. “Alas, I must be the wrong sort of peacekeeper.” She makes her way back to the true course of this conversation. “However, Ser Trevelyan… there are many here who would call you a saviour. They would not be alive if not for your actions at the Breach.”

“I didn’t close it,” he mutters, looking at that strange, flickering mark on his hand.

“But you gave us _time,”_ she stresses. “Time is worth more than gold, in crises such as these. And you have done so much for us.” She exhales, her breath misting in the air. “If that’s their definition of an embarrassment… Well, I should like to be one.”

He raises his head slowly to look at her, and he seems almost amazed. There is silence for a long moment, and then he says, “Thank you.” And then he smiles at her - a true smile, without bitterness, one that softens his face. He might almost be someone else. It is there and gone quickly, but she would like to see it more often. (They had wondered at the war table before, when he’d been elsewhere, if he was even capable of it. Not quite mockery, but too close for comfort. Now she regrets it.)

“I am glad to be of service,” she says. She allows a smile of her own into it, carefully filing away the formality. She nods in acknowledgement, and then she straightens. 

As she walks away, she sees him out of the corner of her eye. He watches her go, curious. In those eyes, there is someone far removed from the cold, silent shadow they have seen so far. She hopes to meet him again.

 


	2. Futures

The supposed Herald of Andraste is rather… odd.

Not much of a descriptor, really, “odd.” It could mean anything: it could mean “slightly too fond of fine cheeses,” or “ten feet tall with lightning bolts shooting out of his eyes,” which, honestly, if you listened to the stories, you’d think he was.

“Odd” is never a word Dorian’s liked much, partly due to how vague it is and partly because he’s heard it too often applied to himself, or his chosen bedfellows. But he can’t quite find any other word. He thinks he might have been rendered speechless. _Him_. Now that’s worrying.

But he’s getting ahead of himself. The beginning’s sometimes a good place to start.

* * *

 The first thing he sees is a helmet. Or, more precisely, the glint of candlelight off a helmet, because the Chantry is a restful and peaceful place with flickering candles and, oh yes, _a bloody great rift in the middle of it_. He thought it impossible, but in the brief glances he catches, he gets the distinct sense the helmet’s _squinting_ at him.

And then he’s a little busy being neck-deep in demons to notice any details, but someone wades into the fight next to him - big, heavily-armoured. A terror swipes at him in a blow that should have taken his head off, but he ducks and then he’s being stepped in front of.

The newcomer runs at the demon - head down, shield out, making a sound that might well be a growl. It goes down screaming, clawing desperately but finding no purchase against armour. It’s run through in barely a blink.

There are two other warriors, as well, but only one proceeds to throw out a hand and… and close the rift. Dorian feels the way the Veil tightens, pulls, feels time reassert itself…

Well, that’s interesting. Perhaps the rearrangement of the magical field -

No time. The stranger’s shaking that mysterious marked hand as if it pains him, and then reaching for that hideous Fereldan helmet and pulling it away.

Dorian looks into possibly the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, covered in enough kohl to knock a man out at a thousand paces, and are those tattoos? They’re intricate, complex, and they must have been astonishingly painful to sit through. It’s all topped off by long hair that would be scandalous back home, roughly half-shaven. The man looks like every warning Dorian’s ever had about Southern barbarians. Perhaps he should be afraid. (He’ll admit, he’s impressed.)

The mighty Herald of Andraste frowns at him and blurts out, “Who are you?”

An inauspicious beginning, but Dorian’s worked with worse. He introduces himself with all the appropriate flourishes, and the Herald watches him warily, mostly silent.

Dorian and Felix neatly explain Alexius’ insane plan, the truth that the rift, the temporal fiddling, everything, were to get to Trevelyan -

“All for me?” And Trevelyan - because now he remembers, it’s one of the Trevelyans, the Free Marches lot - mutters it under his breath, as if no-one else should hear it, which is a shame, because it’s a rather fine quip. “And here I didn’t get him anything.”

Dorian can’t help himself. “Get him a fruit basket. Everyone loves those.”

Trevelyan looks at him in surprise. Then he grins, and it softens the lines of his face. Those eyes really are very blue.

… _Ah_ , Dorian thinks, because he might just be in trouble.

But there’s no time for that thought - and hah, _time_ , isn’t time always the problem - because they’ve barely made a plan when he’s sneaking into the castle with the troops, and then…

The future Redclffe that awaits them is indeed a nightmare. The Herald’s shoulders slump, and with every step hope seems to desert him until he looks like a man walking to the gallows. When he finds the first one of his companions, his eyes are wide, and he grips the bars of the cell with shaking hands. “Blackwall? Are you…”

The Warden can barely speak, and there’s so much lyrium in him that it sings every time he breathes. Even if Trevelyan can’t tell, Dorian’s been a mage his entire life, and he certainly can. Blackwall manages, “Why? - You shouldn’t be here.”

Trevelyan’s eyes move across the mess of red lyrium infesting the man, and he’s silent for several moments until he says, “This should never have been allowed to happen. I’m sorry.”

Surprise crosses Blackwall’s face, and Dorian tries to explain the why and how of them being here while the Herald seems to struggle for words. He runs at the mouth, of course, overcomplicating, slipping in silly comments, because the only way he can stay sane is to look at this as just another problem, solvable, mockable…

Trevelyan straightens his spine and walks on. It seems to take effort, as if he’s carrying a great burden invisible to everyone else, especially when they find the rather formidable First Enchanter, too, lyrium-crazed and bitter.

He expects Trevelyan to snap at him the way the spymaster does; he curses his tongue even as it runs off ahead of him. Instead, after he makes yet another offhand comment, Trevelyan smiles at him. It’s brief, but it looks… almost grateful.

Too many apologies later, after Alexius has died choking on his own blood, Trevelyan asks him quietly, “Are you all right? Can’t be easy.”

Something compels him to be honest rather than sarcastic. Maybe it’s those eyes. They’re hard to lie to.

And when the Herald’s companions have been tossed aside like rag dolls and death is approaching with utter inevitability, while Dorian’s neck-deep in calculations and ripping time apart around Alexius’ trinket, he finds himself saying, “Galahad, is it?”

It’s so quiet he nearly doesn’t catch it, and Trevelyan’s eyes are on the horde approaching them. His shield is up, his sword raised, but there’s resignation in his face and both of them know that one man with a board can’t hold off an army. “Gal. Only my mother calls me Galahad.”

“I’ll remember that,” Dorian says, the rift bursting to life in his hands, and then he grabs Trevelyan - Gal - by the scruff of the neck and throws them into the only future they can afford to have.


	3. The Measure

Dorian could have sworn he saw the Herald - Ser _Gal-only-my-mother-calls-me-Galahad_ \- make a joke the first time they met, but he’s beginning to think it was his overactive imagination. After they return from that horrific future, the man is almost silent. He stumbles out of the portal, nearly falling, and glances around, as if searching for -

 _Ah_. When he sees Blackwall and Madame de Fer, hale and hearty and not so full of lyrium they rattle, his shoulders sag in silent relief, but he says nothing.

Then he’s turning to Alexius, and despite the resigned look on Alexius’ face, the Herald… _Gal’_ s got his sword to the mage’s throat - surprisingly fast, for such a big man - and he’s marching him backwards. “It’s over,” he says, his voice rough, and Alexius’ back hits the wall.

Alexius’ maddened eyes and broken body suddenly swim into Dorian’s mind, and he thinks desperately at his old mentor, _Surrender_. Maybe here, it can end differently. Maybe. His distraction is unsurprising - he’s always been his own worst enemy - but he blinks the thought away, tries to concentrate. He can’t afford to navel-gaze over things that haven’t happened.

Dorian takes Felix aside as his father is being led from the room. “You’ll be all right?” It’s terrible; the words somehow come out completely serious.

Felix laughs. It’s quiet and tired, and a little too damp. “ _Go_ , Dorian. Someone needs to head home and tell them what happened here.”

Dorian nods. “I suppose you’re right. Just… arrive in one piece, if you don’t mind?”

Felix grins at him. It’s almost convincing. “I’ll do my best.”

Dorian claps him on the shoulder, trying not to hold on too long, before he joins the glum procession coming out of Redcliffe’s castle. He doesn’t know quite how, but he ends up next to the Herald. Seems fitting - it’s where he’s been since he arrived.

They make their way back to the Inquisition’s charmingly ramshackle base, trailing one desperate Venatori and a line of rebel mages who are nearly as surprised as Dorian at the offer of a full alliance. Gal is silent for most of the journey. Dorian’s used to navigating parties where a half-whispered word can do as much damage as a knife in the back, and he knows when eyes are upon him. But when he looks, Gal is watching the village around them, or looking at his companions. There’s something sad in his eyes, and he looks at them as though they might disappear at any moment.

When they get to Haven, Gal peels off from the group. Dorian’s wise enough not to follow.

* * *

 He ends up in the woods, where he knows he can be found but they’ll at least pretend to give him privacy.

 _Alive_.

Gal looks at his hands. Clenches his fists to stop the shaking, then leans heavily against a tree. Him, all of them… Alive. He remembers Leliana’s last prayer, remembers Vivienne and Blackwall being tossed aside like rag dolls… He could feel the lyrium in them. (One more reason to regret the training.) It sang even when they were dead.

And yet they’re here. Alive. He’s here. _Alive_.

Don’t get him wrong, he knows why. The mage, for all his grandstanding and flashy charm, saved them all. An hour’s worth of calculations in minutes and a cool head. When Gal had been ready to break down, the Tevinter - “Dorian, of House Pavus,” and he can’t remember the words without the overdramatic flourish - had been calm. Calm enough, at least. Gal stood, still, _useless_ , but Pavus nudged him and kept him moving. He even got him to laugh, which almost no-one in Haven has managed yet. He probably shouldn’t have, but it was something… human in that place. Even if it came out slightly hysterical, it was his.

Maybe he should have been wary of the mage when they met: Tevinter, and speaking every word like he was waiting for applause. Instead, well…

The laughter just slipped out.

And then it seemed no time at all until Pavus was with them at the table, the odd wry comment coming out but his focus complete on their plan. Then Redcliffe, then…

Gal remembers the prone body of Alexius, throat slit just like his son. The flicker in Pavus’ eyes, all pretence at humour gone, as he crouched by the corpse of his mentor. No anger at them for killing his friend. Just resignation, and utter sadness.

Gal found himself crouching next to him and saying, “Are you all right?”

Gal would never usually have described the man as quiet, but Pavus’ eyes settled on him, and suddenly… suddenly Gal knew the reason for all the quips, the show for a nonexistent audience. When Pavus let himself be still, there was an intensity to him, a sharp intelligence behind his gaze, and he was present in a way not many people ever are. He tried for a smile, and replied, “I will be.”

A moment passed there, as the two of them watched each other in the silence.

Gal realised his hand was on Pavus’ shoulder, and he hastily took it away. None of his business. Losing focus. He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he couldn’t just leave the man like -

(Sad eyes. That wry voice, gentled. The way long, careful fingers reached out to take the amulet and paused afterwards, as if he wanted to touch Alexius, before he thought better of it.)

Then they were standing, straightening, getting out of there as they watched the last remnants of the Inquisition die around them. But Gal remembers what he saw in those brief moments. He thinks it was why he planted himself in front of Do - Pavus as the demons came through the door. (Shield up. It would never be enough. But it was something.) Why he told him to call him _Gal_. Fuck, he hasn’t done that since… Probably before the Conclave.

He tries to breathe. He remembers what they told him in the Chantry. _Steady yourself. Listen until there’s only the sound of your breath._

He’s still trembling, but it’s not as bad now. He can recall Vivienne, strong and proud and walking out of Redcliffe with him. Blackwall, solemn but giving him the hint of a smile and a nod. “Glad you’re not dead.”

He could say the same.

He closes his eyes, finds himself again in amongst all the mess. He straightens, accidentally scraping his hands against the bark of the tree. A little painful, but it reminds him he’s here, breathing.

He crunches his way back to Haven, and he’s just walking past the Herald’s Rest when he hears the low words. “Is there a law against flavour in the South?”

He turns, and Do - Pavus is standing on the steps up to the herbalist’s, looking doubtfully at the bowl of porridge balanced on the wall next to him. It steams in the cold air. Those sharp, kohl-lined eyes return to Gal, and it’s clear he’s waiting for an answer.

It comes out before he can stop it. “Only in Ferelden.”

Pavus gives him a half-grin. “I beg to differ, having been to the Free Marches.”

Gal knows when someone’s trying to get a rise out of him. He wonders how Pavus found out, or if he just recognised the Trevelyan name. One that doesn’t apply anymore. (A letter, held carefully so he won’t crumple it. _An embarrassment. False prophet. Disowned._ )

He should leave. He should arrange a meeting with the others. Truthfully, he doesn’t even know why Pavus is still here, but he’s glad of it.

“Where did you go?” he asks.

“I saw some of Ostwick. Even Kirkwall, briefly.” The mage’s face twists, and his thoughts are very evident.

“Bit of a shithole.”

They realise they’ve both spoken at the same time. Pavus grins at him, wry, soft even with sharp cheekbones and that bloody _moustache_.

Gal’s face hurts. He thinks it’s the cold, and then he realises it’s because he’s trying hard not to laugh. He thanks his training for letting him keep a straight face. He nods once, curtly, and then says, “You’ve never tried proper Marcher food.”

“Oh?” Pavus’ smile widens. He looks at Gal with interest from under his lashes, and Gal…

The words are gone. Gal suddenly remembers: this is why he shut up, why he didn’t let anyone… “The honey,” he blurts out. When Pavus raises a questioning eyebrow, he adds, “Marches honey is the best in the world.” And then he walks too fast towards the Chantry, rubbing at the back of his neck, because it feels like his tongue’s too big for his mouth and he can tell his ears are going red. _Idiot_ , he tells himself. _Fucking idiot._

He’s running through what in the Void happened in that future Redcliffe, with Cullen glaring at him for recruiting the mages and Josephine wincing politely, when there’s another set of footsteps and suddenly Pavus is there. And there’s that bloody _smile_ , and Pavus is offering to stay with them, and honestly, Gal will take all the help he can get, especially when it looks like it’s got steady hands and a good heart.

“Stay,” he says, too suddenly.

He sees the surprise that crosses Pavus’ face. Quick then gone, but there.

Maybe he should have said something lighter, more flippant. It’s been too long since he’s talked this much. He’s out of practice. “We could use the help,” he adds.

Pavus takes it in his stride, adding something flippant but not unkind, and then he’s leaving.

The others look on in disbelief. Gal doesn’t, but he watches Dorian go. He doesn’t know why.

* * *

 Dorian finds he’s almost excited by the idea. He’s had enough of the Hinterlands for a lifetime, but wandering about with his new allies, seeing them fight and scandalising the locals? Oh yes. He’s evidently been trapped in this depressing little village for too long, because it actually sounds like a good idea. 

He’d been drafting a letter to Felix, fidgeting and fighting his boredom, when there was a knock on the door of his… hut, for lack of a better word. When he opened it, he found a bleary-eyed Heral - _Gal_ standing outside. He looked different without the kohl, and for a moment Dorian wondered what he’d looked like before the tattoos. Gal nodded by way of greeting, and then said, “We’re heading to the Crossroads. Would you be able to accompany us?”

Dorian yawned and pointedly looked around at the quiet village. “I should be able to find some time in my busy schedule.”

The slightest movement at the corner of Gal’s mouth, then it was gone. “Good. Meet us at the Chantry in two hours.”

Dorian bowed his head. “Of course.” Gal was already leaving when Dorian added, “Just tell me: will I need my templar-killing boots?”

Gal glanced over his shoulder. “Best to be safe.” Then he continued on his way.

Dorian took a moment to appreciate the view, then wondered what he was doing. _Herald of Andraste. We can’t have him being sullied by terrible Tevinter mages. Even mentally._

But he’ll admit, the Herald is rather interesting. He can’t make heads nor tails of the man. One minute it’s all sarcasm and half-smiles, the next it’s staidness and solemnity and quick exits. Maybe a few hours in the man’s company and things will start to make sense.

* * *

 It turns out they don’t. He’s been traipsing up hills and through swamps on a quest for ram meat. Feeding the refugees is a worthy cause, certainly, but as he tries to scrape the mud off his robes with his staff blade, he’s beginning to regret his alliance with the Inquisition. He says it out loud, though barely, muttering under his breath, and he just happens to catch something out of the corner of his eye… “I see you there. You’re _smirking_.”

Gal is solid, solemn, shoulders high and face straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

When Dorian looks over his shoulder, the dwarf - Tethras, and Dorian will never admit it but he’s read his books - and the fascinatingly severe Seeker are watching them in frank surprise. Dorian falls back, allowing Gal to roam the open hills or something else terribly Marcher and robust, to ask them, “What, is he incapable of smiling?”

Tethras raises his eyebrows. “We’d thought so.” He looks to the Seeker. “Nine gold, was it?”

“Ten,” is her quiet reply, and she’s still staring at Gal.

Tethras grins at him, and there’s a curious glint there Dorian doesn’t like. “I’m impressed, Sparkler.”

Dorian looks back to the Herald, still tramping through grass ahead of them, and wonders what they see.

Things liven up considerably when they encounter some charming templars who took it upon themselves to kill an unarmed rebel mage.

The Herald - _Gal_ ; Dorian should probably be thinking of him as some sort of myth when he’s ploughing through their enemies but he can’t with the pain on his face and the desperation - fights like it’s being ripped out of him. He’s fast and brutal, no showmanship to him. He gets them on the ground as fast as he can and then finishes them roughly. He runs into the fray before his companions, no concern for his safety or that of the mark on his hand, throwing himself at the enemy and battering them into submission.

They’re halfway through the fight when it happens.

One of the templars catches Gal in the side with a shield. It would have knocked anyone else over, but Gal anticipates it, shifts, and is simply thrown back a few steps. The templar uses the moment’s respite, bringing his shield up again, a friend joining him and doing the same to form a small, miserable shield wall.

Gal grins at them through blood and tattoos and smudged kohl, and says, “You think I don’t know how you fight, you bastards?”

Interesting. Dorian files that away as a question to ask later.

Then Cassandra is attacking them from behind, Dorian’s set them on fire, and Gal is using the distraction to slaughter them.

Dorian _will_ ask. His curiosity has always been the worst thing about him.

* * *

 The mages Gal saw in Circles and Chantries were… squishy. Unkind, but the best word he can think of. Frail and soft round the edges. To be protected, unless they got a demon in them. They barely got near a staff; it was all theoretical. Nothing like Dorian. He’d suspected - it’s always best to get the measure of opponents and allies - but it’s only a few days after they return to Haven, when the sun’s high in the sky and he goes to his usual training spot by the woods (quiet, safe, _his_ ) that he finds it occupied, and realises.

The mage is laying down barriers and clearing them, summoning glyphs in a half-blink. Muttering to himself when something goes wrong or they aren’t strong enough, dissolving them with a slam of the stave-end to the ground. _Punctuation_ , Gal thinks, before he can stop himself. There’s a rhythm to it. Sometimes Dorian tests them with a quick spell - raises a hand and summons a pillar of flame, brings lightning to bear with a slash of his arm - but then it’s back to swinging the staff.

He’s wearing his usual leather ensemble, the sleeves for once gone. It leaves him in some sort of buckled leather vest, three-quarter gloves on his hands. His skin shines in the sun as he works. He lifts the staff like it’s second nature, easy as breathing. Smooth arcs, steady rhythm, moving with the inhales, with the exhales. Like meditation. Like he’s dancing.

If this is what a free mage can be… Gal remembers again why he chose the mages. Why he offered them an alliance rather than another cage.

He should say something. He should step in. Instead, he watches. Something makes him stop like he’s been hit by a throwaway spell.

Dorian is strong, probably nearly as strong as Gal or Cassandra. Tall, broad-shouldered. He fights with his whole body, like the rest of them, throws himself into the movements. Gal watches the play of muscle as the mage casts, and swallows.

It was never like this in the Circles. They cast slowly, jerkily, except for a few. Those few were viewed with suspicion for their arrogance. But this? This is flourishes that segue into the next move, the next spell. Utter control, utter confidence, moving with the magic. Wild and precise at the same time. Beautiful. (The magic. He means the magic. _Fuck_.)

 _Enough_ , Gal tells himself. He clears his throat.

Dorian unwrites one last glyph and then turns, a pleasant smile already on his face. His hair is dishevelled, his usual kohl just a little smudged. This is a proper battlemage, sweaty, tired and grinning with it, maybe a bit golden. Dorian looks like he’s spent his entire life in sunlit meadows, training to the point of exhaustion and thriving on every moment of it. “I was wondering if you were just going to stand there all day, or if you were going to join me.”

Gal feels the flush that wants to come, but fights it. He wonders how long Dorian’s known. “I… don’t think that would be a good idea.” It’s been too long since he’s sparred with a mage, fought without intent. He doesn’t want to hurt any of his allies.

Dorian spreads his arms, staff still in his hand. “Oh, come on. I’m sure I can handle you.”

Gal stares at Dorian, trying not to allow any mental images into his head, and considers it. After too long he says, “No blood, and I’ll do it barehanded. We stop when either one of us yields.”

Dorian moves to lean on his staff, raises a brow. “Unarmed? I know overconfidence when I see it. They’ll have a field day with this. The day the villainous Tevinter tried to kill their innocent, unarmed Herald… Am I expected to fight like a barbarian too?”

Gal sighs. “No, it’s just me. Keep the staff.” It’ll become readily apparent why.

Dorian gives him a half-smile worthy of a rogue in Varric’s novels. “Then I agree to your challenge.”

Dorian narrows his eyes, waiting. Gal doesn’t give him the satisfaction, just stands, hands loosely at his sides, leaving a good seven feet between them.

Dorian moves.

The Veil twists, bends -

Dorian’s magic feels like a whisper in Gal’s ear, tastes like honey on his tongue. Makes the hairs on the back of his neck stands up.

Dorian’s staff glows with what Gal recognises as a spell of paralysis, and Gal finds the place in his head where he can _think_ , throws out his hand, and stops the spell in its tracks.

Dorian staggers back, surprised. “Well, that’s just not fair.” Then he runs, already hefting the staff.

Gal’s running too, feeling the Veil thin, but then the butt of Dorian’s staff slams into the ground and he’s frozen mid-step, ice blooming around his feet, up to his shoulders.

Dorian smiles and closes the distance between them. He circles Gal, studying his work. “Only works once in a fight, though, doesn’t it?”

Gal keeps moving, repeating, moving, until he hears the low sound. He grunts as the ice breaks with a crack, and he says, “Only needs to once,” as he reaches out a foot and trips the mage.

Dorian catches himself with the staff before he can go down, but it staggers him and gives Gal a moment to move. “Overconfidence,” Gal echoes as he breaks the rest of the ice, backing away, putting space between himself and the mage.

Dorian concedes that with a tilt of his head, and they circle each other until -

Gal moves. Dorian anticipates it, if the barrier that springs up around him is any indication.

Gal reaches for him. It isn’t like slamming into a wall, but there’s a sharp, uncomfortable buzz around his skin, and no matter how he tries, he can’t seem to get a grip on him. It’s what Gal expected, but it’s still unpleasant. Dorian backs up, watching him carefully, and he follows.

( -  _2, 3, 4 -_ )

He summons his will and _pushes_ , and it’s not a smite but he couldn’t manage one of those if he tried, not without the lyrium. It’s a small shove. It’s enough to unbalance Dorian, the barrier flickering, failing. He gets a hand round the mage’s arm, intending to move, to disarm -

Dorian fights it, working to lift a hand and press his palm to Gal’s forehead.

 _Mind blast._ Now it’s Gal who’s unbalanced, and he staggers, stumbles -

Something gets under his knees and trips him. One strong sweep and he’s down. He realises too late that it was a staff.

Dorian stands over him, smirking, and that does it.

He gets a foot, hooks it round Dorian’s ankles, and this one Dorian wasn’t expecting, because then he’s got an armful of Tevinter mage.

Oh. He realises as Dorian gets his hands underneath him, puts some distance between them, that he might not have thought this through. Some distance is still not much, and Dorian’s kept that smirk, even breathless and a little flushed. Dorian’s eyes roam over Gal’s face, and he says, false-outraged, “Why, Ser Trevelyan…”

Gal feels his cheeks colour this time, unable to stop it, and he opens his mouth -

Dorian moves to kneel, fast as a snake, and there’s a staff under Gal’s chin, nudging at his throat. Dorian raises an expectant eyebrow.

Gal wants to kick himself. (Stupid. Distracted.) “I yield,” he manages.

“I should hope so,” Dorian replies, using the staff to climb to his feet. He offers Gal a hand.

Gal takes it. Dorian’s hand is calloused, but his grip is gentle. Gal mutters, after a moment, “Overconfidence.”

Dorian beams at him. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

Gal doesn’t know why he’s smiling, but he finds he is.

Then his smile’s gone as Dorian watches him curiously, because he knows exactly what he’s going to ask. “Interesting bag of tricks you have. Where did you learn those?”

Gal sighs, and tries his best not to mumble. “The templars… I was nearly one of them. I was shipped off to the Chantry like the rest.”

With a frown, Dorian says, “’Shipped off’? You don’t sound very pleased about that.”

“I wasn’t. Trevelyans go into the Chantry, at least for a while. Especially if they’re an embarrassment.”

Dorian blinks, and then he’s got his cheer back. “Or the Circle in Minrathous, if you’re a Pavus.”

Surprise rises in Gal. He remembers Dorian’s ability and wit, and wonders who sane could have considered him a failure. “Oh.”

“How old were you?”

Gal decides on the truth. “Thirteen.”

Something crosses Dorian’s face (surprise? Anger?) before the mask of gentle amusement is put back on. “I was twenty-four. But Minrathous was my…” He mimes counting on his fingers. “…seventh Circle? You know, I can’t remember now.”

Gal remembers it. (The boat. The glares of the older templars, the way some of them were shaking from lack of lyrium. All of it.) “It was my first Chantry.” He looks past Dorian, trying to find an excuse. “There’s - I was meant to meet Josephine. I’ll be late.”

And then he’s leaving, and he feels Dorian watching him.

* * *

 Despite what many may think, Dorian knows when he’s put his foot in it. He knew Southern templars were different, but it hadn’t occurred to him -

He wonders if there’s some way to apologise, or to make Gal laugh again. (Certainly, the image of Gal beneath him and panting is an interesting one, but he finds he misses that brief flash of a smile more, the way those frighteningly blue eyes crinkle at the corners.) The trouble is _finding_ the man.

He wonders where the Herald wanders off to. There has to be somewhere. He sees Gal sometimes speaking to the others, but rarely around Haven. Gal isn’t standoffish so much as… quiet. He doesn’t push himself into conversations, into gatherings. For a man who makes himself a distraction on the battlefield, he’s markedly different away from it.

It’s a few days later, when Adan is grumpily refusing to lend “a Tevinter potion supplies, you’ll probably use it to blow up the Herald or something,” that he has to go hunting for royal elfroot. Herbalism has never been his best subject, and he knows he won’t be able to muddle through and improvise with the wrong ingredients. That was always Felix’s talent, not his. Besides, he’s never had to learn; he was a Pavus, and despite being _that_ particular Pavus, resources were always plentiful and available. He’s having a hunt around, not wanting to bother the odd little committee running this place but unsure whether exploring will get him found and dragged off in chains for spying.

He wanders through a Chantry door and ends up in a gloomy dungeon. He’s wondering whether to turn back or to journey onwards and see if there’s any intriguingly dirty Chantry history he can uncover, when he realises someone’s sitting on the steps to the rest of the corridor. He recognises those broad shoulders and the hair that brushes them.

He inches forwards to look over Gal’s shoulder. The man’s sitting on the steps next to the cells, knees nearly to his chest, squinting at a book. A book that looks oddly familiar.

“Is that _A Treatise on Magical Fields and Polarity_?”

Gal looks up and nods. “Light reading.” There’s a smile in his voice, even if it’s subtle on his face, and Dorian wonders whether he’s been forgiven for his earlier blunder.

“Evidently.” Dorian takes a seat next to Gal, probably dirtying his robes on old stone but not much caring. “Corusca? What possessed you?”

Gal’s returned to his reading, and he mutters, “Interesting choice of words.”

Dorian looks at him, surprised, wondering if he forgets to be taciturn and angry when he’s otherwise occupied. He wonders what made him this way, and the words of a couple of soldiers in the tavern return to him.

_“Never seen him smile. Barely seen him talk. Thought he was going to kill us all, first time he came here. But since Redcliffe…”_

_“He’s been different, yeah? He talks now. To them, at least. I heard him saying something to Sister Nightingale, something about her sacrificing herself…”_

_“Fuck me. Usually it’s everyone else she’s good at killing.”_

When he returns to himself, Gal is watching him. Those eyes are dark, inscrutable. “What were you looking for?”

 _You_ , something in his head whispers, but he gives a proper answer instead. “Elfroot, actually.”

Gal’s eyebrows raise, and he nods. Then he’s rummaging around in a pocket, and he pulls out something green and leafy. “I keep it for healing potions,” he says, when Dorian just looks at him in surprise.

Dorian nods, pocketing it. “My thanks. Why were you reading about polarity?”

Gal shakes his head, sighing. “I was just… curious.” There’s truth in his voice and his face.

“Well then, I’d recommend Forster. He wrote a far better - “

Gal reaches somewhere next to him, and holds up a book. _Polarisation in Magical Techniques, vol. 1. Douglas Forster._

“Ah,” Dorian says, trying not to be surprised. And, he’ll admit, somewhat impressed. “I’ll just leave you to your reading, then.” He moves to stand.

“Do you have any more recommendations?”

And that’s how he finds himself in a damp Fereldan dungeon, talking about the formation of arcane energy with a reluctant nearly-templar.

* * *

 Three days later, he’s working on something, trying to ward off tedium with a half-arsed frost radius calculation or rather, working out where they get their wine supplies from, and then Gal’s next to him. “Can I ask you about the Imperium?”

And much to his own surprise, he doesn’t roll his eyes or say something ridiculous. “Of course.”

And Gal smiles. It’s bright, a proper one, not the brief things of before, with _dimples_.

Oh, Dorian is in such trouble.


	4. Drinking With the Tevinter

Gal’s walking past the tavern when he hears it. A couple of soldiers lean against the side of the building, speaking in low tones.

“Putting a Tevinter in the Inquisition? What were they thinking? It’s like… it’s like letting a snake into your fish-basket.”

“Roi, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Makes sense to me. You go fishing, you need your… Never mind.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, mind. He fucked over his old professor or something, didn’t he? Gave him to the Inquisition. Told you, betrayal’s the only language they fucking speak. You don’t want the Herald near that. Dunno why he even tries talking to him.”

And they can’t see him, but he thinks that’s a good thing. Because he’s quite certain that if he could see them, he’d… Cullen would have to talk to him about hitting the Inquisition’s troops. He walks on, making sure to unclench his fists, and tries not to think much of it. He doesn’t succeed.

* * *

They’re trudging through the Storm Coast, up by the river, and there’s a cave. Gal’s a bit baffled by how many valuables people seem to leave in caves, but - worth a look. Probably. They’re wading through the river (and the spiders), and suddenly… An explosion of light. Pain, burning all the way up his arm.

He tries to swallow nausea. Fuck. He’ll never be used to that. Definitely a rift nearby.

There’s a hand on his arm, gentle but steadying him. When he thinks he won’t fall over or throw up, he straightens, and someone walks past him. The others are ahead, and… Dorian. It was Dorian, he realises. He walks faster to catch up, heading towards the rift.

They’re halfway through the fight when the ground… changes, and he’s on the ground with a terror lunging at him, claws out -

A shout and a vibration, beneath him and in his bones. He knows the feeling of a barrier being cast. The terror lunges but can’t touch him. He gets back to his feet, sword up, and he’s finishing it in a couple of minutes, the barrier still bright and strong.

There’s only one mage in his party, and Gal recognises that sparkling, flourished magic. He looks to Dorian, nodding his thanks.

Dorian grins at him. “I think it’s improved since last time, don’t you?”

Gal remembers last time. The sparring, the way it had ended. He tries his best not to let his face redden. (He’s turned that memory over in his head far too many times. Maybe he’s thinking of it, of Dorian, too much.) “I… Yes. Thank you for that.”

Dorian looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but he doesn’t say anything more, even while the others are watching them in confusion. He meets Gal’s eyes, that amusement still on his face, and Gal tries not to stare or think back over these last few weeks.

(Eye crinkles. Kind eyes even with the roguishness. Steady hand on his arm. Sunlight on dark hair, strong arms - _No_. Gal shakes himself out of it. He’s being a bloody idiot. It’s not that Pavus isn’t attractive, but it doesn’t mean anything. And there’s no bloody _time_ for it to mean anything. Closing the Breach, and then probably a trial. Some Val Royeaux noose because it’s easier.)

Gal drags his eyes away and starts searching round the cave.

It echoes when Dorian speaks. “Gal?”

And he’s knee-deep in a pile of chests and distracted by how good his unwieldy name suddenly sounds, so he only manages, “Mm?” He realises afterwards that it was too much of a grunt.

“You left _Tales of Minrathous_ on a Chantry pew.”

Fuck. It was just some quiet reading. Doesn’t mean anything. “Volume one or two?”

“Well, I’m offended that I’m apparently not a reliable source - “

“You’re a primary source,” Gal mutters, as he’s fumbling in a box and pulling out what looks like an ornate dagger. He turns it over, examines the hilt. Steel, something else. Dragon Age, probably. Sharp, serrated, brutal.

He hears Varric and Sera’s steps come to a halt, and Varric’s low, “Huh?”

“You’re…” Gal sighs, turning the dagger over in his hands. “You’re the most reliable. You were there.”

“For several enjoyable years, yes,” Dorian replies. “And I’m familiar with the concept. Keen on formal history at the Chantry, were they?”

He turns, passing the dagger to Sera. “Think you can do something with this?” She takes it then keeps miming falling asleep at Varric, rolling her eyes. He looks back to the chests. “If you want to know about every maleficar and how they escaped, they’re keen.”

It was under his breath, but Dorian still hears. “So no-one can manage a repeat performance? Cheery.”

“Mm.” Gal puls out something wrapped in leather. Unwraps it carefully, turns it over, lets it shine subtly in the low cave-light. He recognises it from years in Circles. Never allowed in training. Too much potential for damage - barely ever used in a Tower. It’s the last thing in the pile. He rewraps it, standing, and then offers it to Dorian. “This is a decent staff blade.”

Dorian reaches out a warm, half-gloved hand and takes it. He inspects it with a raised eyebrow and says, “Decent by Fereldan standards. But thank you. I’ll make use of it.” Puts it back in leather, slips it into a pouch on his belt. So many pouches. Gal wonders if it’s fashion or if he actually needs that many. As they walk on, Dorian smoothly catches up with him. “Volume three has some juicy tidbits about my family, if I recall.”

Gal knows. It’s why he read volumes one and two then skipped to four, even if the Pavus crest was only on a relatively small section of three. It just felt… intrusive. Besides, he can ask now. “It was volume two,” he says, trying to keep his footing in the current.

* * *

He’s walking through the Chantry, having left his shield and armour next to his bunk. Anyone who wants to steal it is welcome to try. Haven is a small village, and he’s seen the way some of the recruits look at him. Whether it’s the Herald title or the war paint (maybe it’s the hair - Varric keeps saying it’s the hair), at least a few scatter like mice if they see him coming. He doesn’t get it, himself. There are probably bigger men in this Inquisition, and he’s not one for a fight. No time. Hard to fight rebel templars if you’re still sore because you had a chair  smashed over your head yesterday in the pub.

He sees the shine of gold silk. Josephine. She’s leaning against the wall next to her office door. Probably waiting for someone to talk about trade deals and the prices of… rocks. Something like that. She looks up when she sees him. “Galahad.”

He’s tried for _Gal_ , but she won’t do it. She can’t call him _Herald_ , not since he almost begged her to stop doing it, and _Ser Trevelyan_ would be a lie. But _Gal_ is too informal. So it’s _Galahad_ , and he’s trying not to feel like he’ll get dragged out of a room and chastised. He walks over to her with his best _listening intently_ face.

With the hint of a sigh, she says, “There is something you might need to attend to in the tavern.”

He frowns. “What kind of something?”

“The troops… are having their doubts about our newest arrival.”

“Do - Pavus?”

She nods, her face worried.

“Thank you.” Then he sets off, not quite running.

* * *

“Why do you think he dresses like that? D’you think those buckles are gold?”

“Brass, maybe. And I bet he lost all the riches on the way here. From some minor family, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe he stole the stuff. I mean, it’s not like a blood mage would be worried about some fancy robes.”

Dorian takes another swig from his tankard, grimacing. Definitely Fereldan ale. Perhaps they know he can hear them; probably not. They don’t seem particularly intelligent, or the sorts to keep an eye on the room. Though they are soldiers - perhaps he’s underestimating them. If he was seventeen, he’d be fighting the urge to shove his staff up their - well. The picture just paints itself, really. But quite honestly, he’s had worse than this so far and smiled through it, even if it’s felt more like a baring of teeth at times. He’s had… oh, three or four doors slammed in his face. Adan point-blank refuses to trade with him. Several people give him a three-yard berth, if they’re not openly hostile. One of the few people who’s been decent is Flissa, and even she looks round warily when she serves him. It’s not him she’s afraid of; it’s the others.

He’s sitting in a corner. Normally he’d plant himself at the bar and grin wolfishly for every glare he received, but today he’s tired. It feels as though all the water from the Storm Coast has sunk into his bones - he’s weighed-down and faintly cold, and despite all the scrubbing, he thinks he might smell like seaweed. Sera shot him a smirk when he came in, but he didn’t take it as an invitation, preferring to find his own table to brood at.

There’s a bracing blast of mountain air and a creak of hinges as the door opens. Dorian recognises the tall, tattooed figure in the doorway, and he tries not to make his surprise too obvious. He didn’t think Gal did much drinking. Or, well, much of anything that required talking to people in general. He still considers their conversations rather an anomaly, and he’s always thought it’s only because the Herald doesn’t have anyone else to ask these things.

Gal slouches slightly, as if endeavouring to make himself shorter, or perhaps simply make his presence less obvious. It doesn’t work. He speaks to Flissa, ducking his head and offering her what seems - miracle of miracles - like a smile. It’s small and shy, but Flissa still laughs, colour in her cheeks. Dorian is suddenly selfishly glad that Gal seems oblivious, taking his tankard and looking round the tavern.

Their eyes meet across the room, and all of a sudden Gal is making his way to this dark, unbecoming little corner, his walk purposeful and that slouch gone. “Dorian,” he says, upon his arrival.

“Herald,” Dorian responds, noticing the wince he gets for his trouble. “Gal,” he tries, more gently. It’s a plea or an escape route, and it should be obvious. They can both hear the way the noise level in the tavern has dropped except for a few choice whispers.

But the man gives him one of those rare, surprising smiles, taking a seat opposite him and looking around the tavern. Sound begins to return to the room, but there are still eyes upon them.

“What are you doing?” Dorian says.

“Making a point,” Gal responds, bluntly. He nurses his tankard, glancing into it, but makes little move to drink from it. He looks up, meets Dorian’s eye, and gives him that terribly earnest expression he’s so good at. It’s probably what made Cassandra pause when she was going to execute him. There are few people it couldn’t sway. He returns his eyes to his tankard. “If they want to get to you, they’ll have to go through their precious bloody Herald.”

“Who is now drinking partners with the traitorous Tevinter.” Dorian tries to sound amused rather than incredulous.

“Mm-hm.” Gal nods and takes a swig, then pointedly looks around the room.

And there’s barely a whisper to be heard.


	5. Questions and Answers

It’s as they’re on their way back from the Crossroads after dismantling a bandit camp that they find a wide patch of scorched earth, and sitting in the middle of it is a girl. There are three bodies a little way apart from her, and Dorian recognises the robes on one: the vestments of a Southern Chantry Circle. There are two templars, near burnt to a crisp, but the mage’s body is less so; her throat is slit, the line jagged. More casualties of the mage-templar war.

Yet that still leaves the frightened child, who looks up at them with wide eyes, tensing as if she’s ready to run away. She can’t be more than twelve, big-eyed and freckled, dressed in the kind of rags that wouldn’t be given to the worst-kept slaves in the Imperium. She’s also shaking visibly. The Veil’s thin, fluttering around her.

Dorian reaches out a warning hand, placing it on Gal’s arm, just as Cassandra says, “ _Herald_ …”

“I know,” Gal says. “I can feel it.” Dorian wonders at that, but Gal provides no explanation, only continues forwards at a steady pace, slowly and quietly.

She startles at the sight of him, scrabbling to move backwards. “Get away!”

Gal raises his hands, pointedly keeping them far away from his sword and shield. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

She keeps backing away, mumbling something that takes Dorian a moment to decipher. He catches _not you_ , and then he realises what she said: “It’s not you I’m worried about.” The next words are a shrill scream. “Get _away!_ ”

Dorian can taste sparks on his tongue. The Veil is thinning further, beginning to tear, magic building in the air, and he’s a moment from intervening -

There are tears in her eyes, and she all but sobs, “I don’t want to hurt you. Please, please…”

“I know,” Gal replies. “I can stop the spell.”

The magic in the air spikes with her panic, and Dorian quietly readies the spells in his mind: paralysis, freezing, things that will give them a few precious extra seconds if things do go to the Void. She darts a glance towards the armoured corpses, and her tears are starting to escape. “You’re one of them, aren’t - “

“I’m not a templar.” Gal takes another step, another, and crouches before her. “But I can hear the lightning. I can stop it.”

“Normally I can control it… but they…” She raises a hand to her mouth, sobbing. “My sister. Maker, they killed her.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Can you take my hand?” And he reaches out to her, in the space between them. A mage barely in control of herself. Dorian wonders if he has a deathwish.

She looks at him. She considers it, there, sitting in the dirt and shaking, and then she brings out a hand, wrapping her fingers around Gal’s.

Gal nods, offering her one of those brief smiles, and then closes his eyes…

…and the air changes. It’s a slow knitting, almost a healing, of the Veil. The bright, ozone tang in the air fades, the tension in his spine releases, and Dorian can smell grass again. He squints at Gal, attempting to understand. Not quite a dispell; not forceful enough for that. Something close.

The girl blinks at Gal, then at her hand, then at Gal again, and eventually says: “What’s your name?”

“Gal. My name is Gal. Yours?”

“Irene,” she murmurs - but she’s preoccupied by looking at his other hand, which is still faintly glowing. “Gal’s Galahad, right? Because you’re the Herald.”

Gal looks wary, but he nods. “I’m with the Inquisition.”

“We were going to find them before - “ She looks at the bodies again, and a small, hiccuping sound escapes from her.

Something akin to pain crosses Gal’s face, but it’s there and gone quickly enough that he’s calm by the time she looks back to him. “We can take you to them,” Gal says, his voice steady. “Do you have anyone else with you?”

She shakes her head. “They’re dead.”

“We can take you to Haven. If you want us to.”

Varric and Cassandra look incredulous, and Dorian’s not far off himself. There are those who will decide to target the fabled Herald, and if they have a child with them… But Dorian sees the set of Gal’s jaw and knows he’s decided. Perhaps he’s right. A warrior of his calibre may be more protection than the lot at the Crossroads camp, who are well-intentioned and well-trained but barely seem to be out of short trousers. And if her magic attempts to unleash itself on innocents, he has quite the countermeasure. As does Cassandra, if it comes to it.

Gal offers Irene his hand once more, and she takes it, climbing to her feet. It doesn’t take them long to return to the horses, and then Gal’s climbing into the saddle, offering her a hand up.

The ride is short, in relative terms, but it feels significantly longer when they’re accompanied by a silent, shivering child.

* * *

 

Night is falling by the time they return. Dorian is back at his usual haunt - the small, miserable hut with an improvised cot and a desk, next to the equally miserable herbalist’s - when two people climb the steps: Gal and their small, unexpected guest. Dorian can work out why. Adan is, unfortunately, the nearest thing Haven has to a half-decent healer. Gal is all but slouching, ducking his head to listen to her.

“You left?” she’s saying.

That smile again, as quiet and understated as the man himself. “They cut my hair,” he responds, as if that’s a sufficient answer.

Dorian frowns, wondering if it’s too much to ask for the great Herald to make sense.

But then the two are are arriving at the hut, and Gal is saying, “If you need to find me, call for me.”

Dorian can’t help himself. “Or you could stand and wave. It’s a small village, after all. He’ll probably only be about ten feet away.”

He expects a glare or an order to butt out, but instead he gets that flicker of a smile, and when he looks to Irene, she’s similar. There’s a smile in her eyes, even if it hasn’t quite made its way to her mouth yet - and ah, there it is. It’s a start. Gal opens the door for her, and for two or three minutes there’s the low murmur of voices inside Adan’s hut, and then he’s leaving, shutting the door behind him.

A moment passes, two, and Dorian realises that Gal is leaning against the wall of the hut, arms crossed, watching him expectantly.

“I take it you have something to say?” Dorian tries.

“I thought you might, actually.” The words are wry. Gal’s obviously been spending too much time around him; he sees the beginnings of a sense of humour.

Dorian sighs inwardly, but asks, even as he doubts the wisdom of the question. “What was all that about cutting your hair? It still seems remarkably intact to me.”

Gal’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and then he looks past Dorian, to the makeshift tavern. “I could do with a drink.”

Hardly an offer he can refuse. Dorian falls into step with him, and they make their way to the Singing Maiden. It’s an odd little routine they’ve developed: Dorian will have at least two, usually hideous, tankards, and Gal will nurse one. They’ll while away an hour or two, talking occasionally, and it’s almost… pleasant. A strange piece of normality in a time of holes in the sky and demons around every corner. Flissa smiles at the sight of them; she’s used to it by now. What began as a protest has become something mundane - and that’s something he never thought he’d welcome, mundanity.

They sit down, each with a mug of something that’s quite probably disgusting, and Gal sighs. “I told you I went to the Chantry when I was twelve. I was an initiate for a while. Learning reading, writing… And then I was fifteen.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow, waiting. Sometimes the wait is long, but the answers he gains are usually worth it. When he’s not left with more questions and a headache, that is. Either is likely, with Gal.

Gal addresses the table. “The sisters and the brothers were… decent. They allowed me freedoms, sometimes. A Trevelyan.” And there’s a bitter snort in that.

Dorian remembers hearing something about a letter, a disapproving family. All a bit familiar, and he’d attempted not to pry. Not very well, of course. Maker knows he’d pry plenty if Gal would let him. The man’s far too interesting for his own good.

“But one day I’m told one of the templars wants to see me.” Gal takes a heavy swallow from his tankard. Unusually heavy. “He says, you’ve filled out. And you’ve got a good name behind you. Shame to waste a Trevelyan. Spare Trevelyans end up templars.”

Dorian frowns. “It doesn’t sound as if you were enthused by the prospect.”

With the smallest uptick of his mouth, Gal replies, “I wasn’t. I argued, but it was an order. Not a choice. The brothers and sisters had let…” He touches a hand to his head and his half-shaven mane. Self-explanatory, really. “The next day, they came to take me to the barracks, and I was…” His smile widens, barely there as it is, and he gives Dorian a brief glance before he returns his eyes to the table. “…unenthused. So they say, the noble brat’s playing up again. He needs… taking down a peg.” He gestures to his hair again. “And they hold me down, get a dagger, and cut it all off.”

Staring at him, at his utter matter-of-factness, Dorian says, “What a delightful place.” The note of horror in his voice was unintended, but he thinks it rather makes his point.

Now Gal’s smiling. “Mm. I broke one’s nose. And I got out.” Another swig of ale.

Dorian leans an elbow on the table, props his head on his hand, and assumes an air of casual curiosity. “Yes, you mentioned that. How, exactly?”

“I was nineteen when I told them that my family had demanded my return. And my family were… generous with their donations. Influential. So they took my word, because a Trevelyan wouldn’t lie to the Chantry.”

Trying not to grin, Dorian prods him with, “And would _this_ Trevelyan lie to the Chantry?”

Gal’s almost smirking now. It… suits him. “I was halfway to Ostwick before they thought to check.” He raises his head, meets Dorian’s eye.

There’s something roguish about Gal’s expression, something that hints at a well of mischief, and Dorian takes a drink instead of doing something stupid like, say, asking him if he’d like to find the nearest hut and commit some well-deserved blasphemy. The Herald of Andraste can’t be seen with Tevinters. And the Herald of Andraste most certainly isn’t some sort of deviant. Oh, the Herald of Andraste is probably perfectly, conveniently chaste, and if he isn’t, he only enjoys the company of certain Chantry-approved women. There’s been nothing to suggest otherwise. Yes, there were those moments in the sparring yard - Dorian knows when someone’s watching him, he’s never been a fool - and the way Gal seeks out his company, but both of those can be put down to an interest in the arcane. Not in him. Even if the alternative would be an intriguing prospect…

 _No_. He’s played this game before, with men who won’t look at him twice but are just interesting enough to cause a scandal, and it held little appeal back in the Imperium. He’s certainly not repeating those mistakes here. There’s a world to save, in case he’s forgotten; he has decidedly bigger concerns.

“They tried another Chantry, after I returned. I was… disappointing them.” A brief shake of his head. “That lasted a few months.”

It’s Dorian’s turn to give a dark little laugh. “Now that sounds familiar.”

Gal frowns at him. “They were wrong.”

The ferocity of the statement takes Dorian by surprise. “Your family or mine?”

Once again speaking to the table, Gal replies, “Yours. Mine thought they had reasons.” Gal shakes his head again, and Dorian senses the subject is closed. He drains his tankard, and then looks at Dorian.

For once, Gal’s finished first. Dorian shakes his head in response to the implied offer, and then watches Gal slouch his way to the bar. Gal returns with another mug, slumping into his chair.

The minutes pass, and little is said. Gal drinks, and Dorian resorts to working through calculations in his head. They begin as tinkering with the work-in-progress Haste spell he thinks he can improve, then they become other things: The likelihood Gal will speak in the next five minutes. The likelihood of him finishing this drink rather more quickly than he’d intended and finding less awkward company, which, he knows, is frighteningly low. The likelihood Gal shares the same “problem” as him.

Gal eventually comes back with a third tankard, and… “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

Dorian looks up at the sudden blurted words. He pretends to take them in stride, because that’s what he always does. “What, an evil Tevinter magister, or a mage who likes fiddling with temporal reality?”

“Not what I meant.” There’s the slightest hint of a slur to those educated, noble vowels. Gal’s tolerance must be impressively low. That or Flissa’s given him something dwarven. “You’re not like the - “ He pauses, takes a moment to reorient himself, and tries again. “The Venatori.”

“I try not to be.”

“Knew there had to be people different,” Gal says. He squints across the table at Dorian. “You don’t dress like them.”

He should bloody well hope not. They seem to have taken advice from the “villainous cliche” handbook that’s probably given out at parties. “Oh?”

“You’re not…” Gal waves a vague hand. “…pointy.”

Dorian struggles not to laugh. “You’re saying I don’t have enough outcroppings and spikes for you?”

“I prefer your way.” Gal looks at him through long lashes, almost shyly, and for a moment he wonders… Then Gal’s frowning intently at the table again. “Are there more like you in the Imperium?”

That startles a laugh from him, and he can’t help himself. “Oh, there’s _no-one_ like me in the Imperium.”

Again, Gal gives him that assessing look, all blue eyes and soft mouth. “I can believe that.”

Are they flirting? He’s never been able to resist testing a hypothesis, and so he ventures further into dangerous territory. “You’re rather different yourself. The kohl I can almost understand, but the tattoos are… quite something.”

Gal looks thoughtful. “The best way to win a fight is if they look at you and run. The best sword is one you never have to use.” He adds, by way of explanation, “My… my instructor.”

“Perhaps the Chantry wasn’t a complete waste of time, then.”

Gal smiles ruefully, conceding that with a half-nod.

“I wondered if you were just going for the ‘strapping barbarian’ look.”

Gal raises a brow. “’Strapping’?”

“If one likes that sort of thing.”

Gal’s smile widens as he considers his tankard, and then it fades. “We need more patrols,” he says, after a moment too long.

Dorian blinks. “And I’ve been told my leaps of logic are hard to keep up with.”

“There should have been…” Gal touches his forehead, closes his eyes. “There should have been people. Her sister would still be alive.”

“Ah. Your new friend.” Dorian sighs. “I can’t say you’re wrong. Things might have turned out differently. Or we might have ended with a pile of dead Inquisition soldiers. You couldn’t have known.”

“She was… she was coming to find us… She almost…” Gal stops. Then he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “This is why I don’t drink. Makes me morbid.”

“Anyone would be, after today. I may forgive you.”

“I’ll talk to Cullen. Next time we’ll… we’ll know.” Gal nods once, sharply, his eyes still a little unfocused, as if glad to have permission to talk. “Thank you.”

Dorian grins. “Thank you for calling me… what was it… not pointy?”

Gal glares at the wall, and much to Dorian’s surprise, there’s a tinge of pinkness underneath all those tattoos. “Mm.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds like, “Fuck, I’m never drinking again.”

Dorian can’t resist. “That would be a shame. I must say, I’m rather enjoying the show. You’ve spoken more than two adjacent words, and they haven’t been about magical theory.”

That impressive glare is turned upon him. “This is your fault.”

“I should probably have kept an eye on your intake. That said, I didn’t expect you to have the tolerance of a fourteen-year-old at his first _soiree_.”

The glare somehow intensifies. Then Gal squints into his tankard. “I… I need to go.”

“I have a potion that can be helpful, if you’re willing to drink a poisonous Imperial concoction. It might go some way towards sobering you, though it always tends to knock me out.”

“I can brave it.” His long-suffering tone almost pulls a laugh from Dorian. He adds in a murmur, “Bloody… _soirees_.”

Gal moves to stand, and Dorian, selfless fool that he is, does the same. “Will you be requiring an escort?”

Gal pauses, uncertain, blinking in surprise. “I…” Eventually he nods, scratching awkwardly at his stubble. He returns the tankards to the bar - not exactly wobbling, not far gone enough for that, but choosing his steps too carefully, his gait ever-so-slightly uneven - and Dorian shadows him. After all, the Herald can’t be seen to fall on his backside in front of the troops.

They leave to the sound of Flissa’s cheerful goodbye, and as Gal makes his crunchy, overly precise way from the tavern, Dorian prods, “So. What do you have against _soirees_? Myself, I rather enjoy an opportunity to drink all someone’s wine and scandalise a few nobles.”

Gal’s grimace is almost a sneer, so undignified that at least two passing villagers trip over themselves attempting not to stare. The Fabled Herald of Andraste, indeed. He says, after a few more snow-laden steps,“My parents kept trying to marry me off.”

“Surely it can’t be that bad. A few hours in the company of beautiful women…”

The grimace doesn’t budge as they pass Varric’s campfire. The dwarf is nowhere to be seen. Gal mumbles something that Dorian isn’t certain of, but he thinks he hears “wasted effort.” The rest is frankly a mystery. For an imposing man who has so few reasons to be nervous, Gal has a habit of speaking to his own knees.

Dorian says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” They reach the hut where Gal has been sleeping, and Dorian pulls out the small vial from his belt, proffering it. “And I really do recommend this.”

Gal takes it from him with a gentle hand. “Poisonous… concoction. Thank you.” Exhaling with that small, frustrated shake of his head, Gal turns and unlocks the door, muttering, “They gave up.”

“I beg your pardon?” This game is becoming increasingly frustrating.

The response is absentminded as Gal pockets the key. “The second Chantry was after I’d been caught with the Coulters’ son.” He looks over his shoulder. “I, er… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Dorian nods, watching him shut the door, and thinks, _Ah_.

The walk back through Haven leaves far too much time for thought, and it involves more questions than answers.


	6. pictures in the snow

If there’s one thing Dorian has learned while studying his areas of expertise, it’s that nothing changes time quite like death. It’s all in the mind, of course - when it’s looming, days fly by like hours, and minutes… minutes are barely anything at all. Finality is hanging in the air, even as they do their best to ignore it. The commander is telling them that the villagers will take the escape route, and Gal -

Gal won’t. Gal will throw himself at death the way he always does, and this time he won’t return.

There’s a certain resignation in his eyes. Between the blood and the tattoos, he should probably be fearsome, but he simply looks tired. It’s the sort of deep weariness that has a tendency to be permanent. He’s unshaven, dark-eyed with exhaustion, and he doesn’t seem very much like an invincible Herald when his back is bowed under the weight of it all. He nods, listening calmly as he’s ordered to his death, and at the end of it, he straightens his spine and keeps his chin high. Playing the good little soldier, and oh, how Dorian wishes he wouldn’t. A man should kick and scream at death, should protest. Not be stoic and accept it with such stupid… bravery. The word he’s looking for is bravery.

Gal says, so quietly it would be easy to miss, “Thank you.”

Cullen nods in return, looking as if he’d dearly like to say something, but instead he sets off to prepare the evacuation, and that just leaves the four of them. Gal turns, and in the middle of it all, their eyes happen to meet.

And this, Dorian wishes he could keep. He wants to, quite simply, bottle time, slow things so that Gal will never have to take that final walk. A few more stolen moments in a burning Chantry, held fast. A few more things said. The Herald is a friend - or at least, Dorian thinks he is - and somehow, the quiet man who smiles at offhand quips about magical auras and steps between anything with ill intent and his friends seems so much more important than the mythical Herald with the Maker-given Mark. He would like to have known that man more.

But the seconds are slipping through his fingers, and damn it, he’s watched far too many people die. Enough for a lifetime. He knows too well the nature of inevitability.

Gal’s voice is almost, _almost_ steady. One would have to listen hard to hear the shake in it. But Dorian has a terrible habit of listening to Gal carefully; he’s used to navigating half-answers and mutterings. So he hears the tremor as Gal says, “If you want to come with me… this is the last time. And if anything happens, don’t come back for me. Don’t look back. You go with the others. At the end of this… go.”

Cassandra steps forwards. “I am with you, Herald.”

Dorian can’t help himself. It’s foolish, it’s pointless, and it’s the only thing he can do. “I’m coming with. We should at least give them a run for their money.”

Then it’s Varric’s turn. “Like I’m leaving now. We’re just getting to the good part.”

Gal stands for a moment, watches them in abject disbelief. Those eyes are wide and so very blue. Dorian wonders if he’ll ever see their like again. Then Gal nods. “Thank you.” Those quiet words again, barely heard beneath the cacophony of a crumbling building and cries of war. And he looks to the doors of the Chantry, his jaw working. He begins the walk, and for some reason Dorian finds himself slipping into step with him, at the front of their odd, doomed little march. Gal glances at him, only once, something unreadable in his face, and keeps walking.

* * *

 The moment comes too soon. It always does. They’re fighting furiously, almost back-to-back, and he’s casting barriers around Gal every other minute as if it might somehow save him. Can’t have him dying before his _sanctioned_ death, can we?

He doesn’t know why his thoughts are so bitter. There’s no other way; Cullen, or even he, in his infinite genius, would have found it. One man for the world. Surely it’s a fair exchange.

And then the dragon has returned, and they’re being knocked to the ground by Haven collapsing around them.

By the time he finds his feet again, leaning heavily on his staff and quite certain his ribs are broken, a wall of rubble is between him and their erstwhile Herald. He looks at it and the sensible part of his mind knows that it’s insurmountable. The less sensible part is preparing a force spell -

A hand on his shoulder. He looks to his side and Cassandra says, “We must go. It may already be too late.”

He can hear the dragon, he can hear…

“There must be… There must be another way,” he manages.

Varric sighs. “You know she’s right, Sparkler. This place is half-gone already.”

He looks once more at the debris where a saviour should be. He considers their odds.

Then he nods, turning and attempting to run with them from Haven. It’s more of a moderately fast limp, and his breath burns in his chest, but he’s had worse.

_Don’t look back._

Bloody self-sacrificing fool.

They find the camp with the shivering, miserable villagers some time later.

Cullen looks up at their arrival and asks, “Is the Herald…?”

Cassandra shakes her head and begins to speak, but Dorian, for once in his life, says nothing. Instead he looks up at the stars and wonders what it’s like to die underneath them. He wonders what the world will be without a strong shield and a quiet laugh. He wishes his theories had borne fruit, that he could somehow go back and change it all. He sees it in his mind too clearly - Gal with them, running from this mess, tending to the villagers. An overactive imagination; that’s always been his problem. He lets himself hold onto the images for a moment before he throws them aside, ashamed of his self-indulgence.

Here is the simple fact: Gal is dead, he is not, and the world may well follow. He wishes they’d had more time. Isn’t time always the problem?

_Don’t look back._

An impossible request. He watches the snow fall, waits for the storm to pass, and wonders what could have been.


	7. Crossing

He’s shivering by the fire when there’s a murmur of speech, a call, and he hears it: “ _The Herald_.” It spreads around the camp like wildfire - hardly surprising; Haveners are so very fond of gossip, after all - until it’s a low buzz, and he’s standing, making his way towards the source of the sound, because he needs to see. Gossip isn’t gossip if it’s verified.

Cullen and Cassandra are at the edge of the camp, and with them... with them is a figure, doubled over and almost collapsing, held upright only by the combined strength of Cullen and Cassandra and perhaps will. Dorian recognises brown hair crusted with snow, pale skin and tattoos.

 _Alive_. Gal’s alive.

Dorian wonders if this is a product of his fevered imagination, or if the cold has finally caught up to him, but when he runs to help them in a way that’s probably rather undignified, he touches freezing, scarred skin and knows. Well, he shouldn’t be surprised. Gal’s always been far too tough for his own good.

Galahad Trevelyan: possibly the only man who could have a mountain dropped on him and survive. Perhaps he really is blessed by the Maker. Or cursed. Neither would be much of a surprise.

Dorian helps them heave a mostly-unconscious, astonishingly heavy warrior to the makeshift healer’s tent. The mages on hand glare at him when he asks if he can stay a moment or two, but they don’t say anything conclusive, so he takes the opportunity.

Gal’s lips are blue - hardly a reassuring sign - but his breath is misting faintly in the mountain air, so he is breathing; that’s something. Most of the kohl and paint he wears into battle is gone, his hair is wild, and he’s trembling slightly.

Dorian watches him for a moment more, until it feels like self-indulgence. He’s ascertained Gal is alive, that should be more than enough. He turns, thanks the healers for their patience, and then steps out into the valley, exhaling deeply.

Around the camp, that murmur is beginning again, building by the moment. And even while they’re stuck in the middle of nowhere and probably going to freeze or starve to death before they can find any useful resources, people are smiling. The whispers are starting. _He came back. They can close the Breach. He really is..._

He should probably think they’re naive. Instead, he recalls those trembling hands and those tattooed blue lips, and thinks he understands their relief. He should be more cheered by the return of their Herald, but in truth, he’s relieved that the world hasn’t lost an awkward, stubborn man who gets through all of Archaeus’ _The Pysche and Magyk_ volumes in a week and who occasionally falls asleep while meditating. 

His priorities are rather skewed; the Inquisition would be appalled. It’s likely he should be too. But somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.

He half-falls into his former place by the campfire, sitting heavily, his face in his hands. He isn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry, but he realises he’s smiling. It may well be slightly hysterical, but it’s a start.

Perhaps the Maker gives gifts after all.

* * *

 The days pass strangely. Gal wakes up from dreams of snow and death, and realises Corypheus didn’t kill him. He’s being hailed as some kind of miracle. Apparently the Maker resurrected him.

 _Bollocks_ , he wants to say. He remembers it all. A hasty fall. Some kind of luck, that’s all it was. But he’s tried talking about his before, right from the start, and people seem desperate to cling to a dream instead of focusing on what’s real. At least they’re not hurting anyone in his name, so far as he can tell. Well, red templars and Venatori, maybe, when they get the chance, and he won’t argue with that. But they’re not starting wars in his name. That’s something.

There were losses, but few. Nearly everyone made it out alive. His... Well, they’re friends now. His friends are alive. And his horse made it out alive. And there’s a place to go...

They just might make it after all.

He’s still weak and drowsy when he trudges to one of the main fires and sits down next to it. Someone wrapped him in a fur cloak before he fell asleep - probably didn’t have a blanket to hand. He’s glad of it, but he’s warm enough. Maybe he’s a Fereldan, inside. They all sit in a few sparse furs and leathers. The cold might not be as bad for them.

He’s staring into the fire, working out routes to “Skyhold,” whatever that is (Head north. Get through the pass. Try not to starve or freeze), when there’s a sound and a shifting of the furs he’s sitting on.

Dorian makes sitting a single movement - leisurely, almost. The kohl around his eyes is smudged, he looks tired and his hair’s fucked, but he’s even graceful here. It’s like he’s never out of his element. Gal feels awkward and clumsy in comparison.

Dorian says, “I managed to save my personal library. Foster’s works are safe.”

Gal can’t help it. “Even volume four?”

He can hear the smile in Dorian’s voice. “Even volume four.”

When he looks properly, he notices. It’s not obvious unless you’re looking for it, but Dorian’s shivering, arms round his knees. Protecting his chest.

Gal can’t just leave it. He takes the fur around his shoulders, reaches out to wrap it around Dorian’s instead. Dorian looks at him in surprise, and he shrugs. “I didn’t need it.”

Dorian’s eyebrow is still raised. “They say it’s rude to return a gift, but since it wasn’t really mine anyway, I’ll accept it. Just this once, mind.”

Gal remembers waking up to carefully tucked corners, a quiet thought in the night. A small kindness. Dorian pretends to be haughty, pretends he doesn’t care, but underneath... Gal remembers thinking it back in Haven. Dorian’s secret isn’t that he’s Venatori, or practising dark arts; it’s that he’s kind.

Dorian watches the fire, and Gal... Gal watches Dorian. Because he _wants_ , damn it. It was easier before, when there wasn’t so much time to be still and he thought it was just about a pretty face. But that was before he nearly died, and now he’s alive and he wants to cling to something familiar. And the firelight’s turning Dorian’s skin bronze, shadowing the line of his jaw, and his eyes are dark because he’s in deep thought, and Gal...

Gal wonders what it’d be like. To shift across, to run his fingers through the fur, turn Dorian towards him and kiss the mouth he’s thought about. (Too much. All the time.) He gets the feeling Dorian might even... not mind.

Gal’s fingers twitch, and he clenches them.

Fuck. Not the time.

Dorian glances at him curiously.

He knows he’s been silent too long. He wishes he could find the words. Instead he just says, “Thank you.”

Dorian seems surprised, but nods. “Can’t have the Herald of Andraste freezing to death, can we?” Gal’s teeth grit at the name, and Dorian just grins. “Oh, it’ll only get worse from here. What were they saying, a miraculous resurrection?”

Gal mutters, “I didn’t die.”

“What was that? My ‘mumble’ is rather rusty.”

Gal glares at him. _“I didn’t die_. There was... a cave. It got me out of the storm.”

Dorian’s still too amused. “Have you told them that?”

“I’ve bloody _tried_.”

And Dorian’s laughing under his breath, and there’s a moment where he’s looking at Gal like he can’t believe he’s real and alive before he hides it, and Gal can survive this.

* * *

 It only takes them a week to find Skyhold. Dorian’s surprised, but it appears Gal is nearly as good at scouting as he is at hitting things. Who would have known?

Gal is a quiet, steady presence, keeping an eye on the refugees when he isn’t up at the front, leading them onwards, chin up and brave countenance assumed. Sera can often be found next to him, saying things that make him shake his head. Her laughter is swept back to the rest of them on the wind, loud and raucous. Now and again, the girl from the Crossroads - Irene, that was it - will walk with him. She’s silent nearly as often as Gal is, but Dorian’s quite sure he’s seen them playing some sort of game with letters and what can be seen around them. He wonders if it’s a southern thing. Josephine is the other constant, with hushed words and worried wavings of her arms. It’ll be about morale and supplies; it always is. Gal will sometimes say things and she’ll smile, obviously restraining a laugh. Dorian wonders if she was the first in Haven to realise Gal had a sense of humour, well-hidden as it often is.

Dorian tries not to bother their erstwhile Herald. Really, he does. But he’ll find himself slipping into step with him, saying foolish things about “the bracing mountain air” and how “this many people crammed together almost reminds me of a party in Qarinus... Well, there was more wine and an orgy or two, but even so.” Honestly, he’ll say anything for that brief flash of a smile, for the fondness in Gal’s eyes. It makes the gaping hole in his chest left by the realisation that Corypheus was one of theirs, that yet again, his country has been a disappointment, less severe. It’s a reminder that Gal is alive - so very, entirely alive - and Maker, he thought he’d lost this.

The days wear on until they reach the fortress, and then there are murmurs, and...

Of course Gal will be made Inquisitor. It was obvious to anyone with eyes and ears; Cassandra and Cullen, in particular, had pushed hard for it in half-whispered meetings that Dorian’s almost certain he wasn’t meant to hear. They’re not wrong. Gal has led them through snowstorms, through despair, through Orlesians, and come out of it alive. He’s the obvious choice.

But when Cassandra is all but pushing Gal forwards, and Gal’s nervously eyeing the sword as though it might bite him, Dorian wonders. Surely this can’t be a surprise? Gal must have known. But the way he swallows, hesitating, and by the way he’s holding his jaw, he’s gritting his teeth...

Ah. This could be a problem.

But Gal’s stepping forwards, and he accepts the sword without any more obvious reluctance. He weighs it in his hands, as if feeling the weight of what it means, not simply the steel, before he hefts it.

“This isn’t about some greater message. This is about doing what’s right.”

It’s simplistic and he would be torn apart in any court worth its salt. Yet it’s so very _Gal_ , and Dorian isn’t entirely sure why, but he finds himself smiling. Their eyes meet briefly, and there’s fear in Gal’s eyes, but a fierce determination, too. Dorian doesn’t cheer with the others - it would be so very _gauche_ \- but he keeps his eyes on Gal’s, keeps smiling. It might just be enough.

* * *

 

“Oh, and congratulations on that whole leading the Inquisition thing, by the way.”

A shadow crosses Gal’s face. It’s only a moment, and then he’s raising an eyebrow in bemusement, playing along.

But Dorian wonders. He can’t help it; he’s always been an overthinker.

* * *

 He finds Gal a day or two later. He’d wandered past the stables, ready to move on until he’d seen a tall figure, head bowed and those intriguingly broad shoulders slumped, brushing his horse’s mane. She’s a chestnut mare, and he’s told her name is “Chev” - Dorian’s surprised that Gal would allow something so Orlesian, but apparently she won’t answer to anything else.

He approaches cautiously, quite ready to be dismissed and told to research something. “Inquisitor?” The word’s still foreign on his tongue, but he’ll get used to it. Eventually.

Gal’s head dips further, and he sighs almost inaudibly. “Just Gal. If you... don’t mind.” The motions of his hand are slow, repetitive, and his focus is complete. As if he’s trying not to think. Dorian should leave him be. He won’t, of course, but he should.

“’Just Gal’? Isn’t that rather unbefitting of the Almighty Herald?”

The brushing stops completely. Chev has become restless, as if sensing Gal’s preoccupation or upset, and Gal hastens to calm her. “There, girl... You’ll be all right. I’ll leave you to it.” His voice is softer than Dorian has ever heard it. He’s different here. The kohl is firmly in place, but his hair is tied back in a simple knot, as if he’s just come from training. He was rarely out of armour in Haven, but here, he’s sporting simple leathers. That should probably make him seem smaller, but it just makes his bulk more obvious. Dorian couldn’t help noticing - he’s only human, after all.

Gal runs a hand along her back before putting the brush aside. He looks at Dorian as he leaves, a cue, and Dorian follows, shutting and locking the stable door behind him. He’d never live it down if the traitorous Tevinter allowed the Inquisitor’s horse to make a run for it.

Gal inhales. “It might be, if I were the Herald.” He takes a few more steps before he leans against a wall in a dark corner, sagging, his eyes closing.

Dorian should probably leave him to his brooding, but he’s never been wise when it comes to Gal. He moves closer. “Long day?”

“I...” Gal talks to the ground, and he seems to shiver, even in the improbably warm courtyard. “I thought... They can’t kill me.”

A rather worrying train of thought. Dorian pretends to be mildly curious instead of disturbed. “’They’?

Gal finally, finally looks at him. “I met Cassandra when she’d got a sword to my throat. They thought that I’d... The Conclave.” He swallows. His eyes are bleak. “And then the Chantry were out for my head, and I thought... I thought there’d be a trial, when the Breach was closed. That it would be easy to...”

“To execute you.” Dorian speaks before thinking, unable to help himself. Such a matter-of-fact way of putting it. Such a terrible thought, and yet it makes a sort of awful sense. The false Herald, either executed or quietly locked away until he was forgotten. People always forget, in the end. They’re so quick to rewrite history.

Gal nods. “But the Inquisitor can’t just disappear. I’m just a soldier, I thought that would be the end of it, even then... But now I’m _leading_ them.”

“Gal...”

With a shake of his head, Gal straightens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“Gal.” And he has a hand to the man’s shoulder, stopping him, anchoring him here. “No-one’s about to run at you with an axe. Or a noose, for that matter. In case you hadn’t noticed, the people here are rather fond of you. They believe in you.”

Gal looks at him, truly looks at him, and yes, those eyes are so very blue. “What about you?”

Dorian is keenly aware that he’s still touching Gal. That his throat is dry, and the words don’t come easily. That this must look suspicious at best, and at worst like... “If you must know... I believe in you too.”

That smile makes a reappearance. It grows slowly, as if Gal’s still unable to believe what he’s heard. It’s soft, gentle, secretive, and for a moment there might be nothing and no-one else in Skyhold. Gal steps forwards, that smile fading to a look of curiosity, of intensity, a look Dorian thinks he recognises, and the awareness of it prickles up his spine...  

...And he has to take back his hand before he does something stupid. “I hear the lady ambassador is looking for you. You should probably pay her a visit.” It’s true. He’s heard it in the corridors.

He turns, all but fleeing, making his way up the steps with thoughts still clattering in his head. This... this is dangerous. Foolish. And the possibility that it might be returned...

Later, he tells himself. He’ll think on it later.


	8. Sweet Nothing

 They’re halfway down a particularly steep hill on the Storm Coast, and it’s only years of training and spending far too long in Makerforsaken swampland that let Dorian keep his footing when Sera says, “You _liiike_ him.”

He can’t help darting a glance at their freshly-crowned, reluctant Inquisitor, who’s far ahead of them, and appears to be… poking at elfroot? Good. Certainly out of earshot. The dread is already beginning, but he carefully looks at Sera and voices his apparent puzzlement. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been looking at his arse. And that’s not glowing, so it can’t be ‘studying the Mark’ or whatever.”

And he reminds himself that this is not Vyrantium, or Minrathous, but the fear is still rising in his throat. To be thrown out of the Inquisition after all he’s done to get here, after all they’ve achieved - it would be…

He’s being foolish. He remembers Gal’s confession, the way he looked at him, the fact that Sera herself is open about only pursuing her own sex - and yet, this place is only dangerous in a different way. He’s heard the whispers. He knows what they’d think about their holy figurehead being with a man, with a Tevinter, of all things. Even after what happened at Haven - and there has been a slight thawing since they heard that he chose to stay with their Herald until the last, even if he’s still an undesirable to many - it would be political suicide for an Inquisition still in its infancy. Perhaps Gal doesn’t understand, having been stuck in a Chantry the years he could have been learning the Game, but even if there is a mutual interest… It’s a knife-edge they’re walking. He can’t afford to slip.

“There seems to be a buckle loose next to his belt,” he says, calmly. There is, but he’d barely noticed it.

She snorts. “Yeah, right. But you could just _talk_ to him. Or is that not a thing in Tevinter?”

If she’s going to push it, he’ll have to play dirty. “What, the way you’ve ‘just talked’ to Dagna?”

The beginnings of a flush climb her cheeks. “Not fair. You’re not meant to…”

She mumbles something about wanting him to piss off, and he sighs. “If it helps, it really isn’t a thing where I come from.” When she looks at him, still scowling but with a hint of curiosity, he continues, “’Just talking’ tends to end up with awkward shags in wardrobes. Not much good for securing alliances and continuing bloodlines.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you have to be all stuck-up and noble over here.”

“True.” He nods towards Gal. “But he does. Besides, I _like_ being stuck-up. I positively make it an art form. This nose looks best when it’s high in the air, in my opinion.”  

“That’s stupid.”

“If only it was.” He looks back to where their leader is frowning, carefully pulling plants up by the roots, and realises what’s going on. “Do you think he’s found royal elfroot yet?”

“Huh?” She squints Gal’s way. It’s a distraction, and it’s enough. He’ll make a note to be more subtle in future. All this time in the south is making him sloppy.

* * *

 “I think you’re afraid,” Josephine says.

Gal wants to be angry, but this is _Josephine_. And it’s not her fault he’s a coward. “Maybe.” He frowns at her, surprised she’s brought this to his attention. “Then it’s not just me?”

“There is clearly something between you. But it’s none of my business.”

He lands one last blow on the training dummy. It’s a mess - it’ll have to be replaced soon. He lowers his sword and then sighs, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. He looks to where she’s leaning against the fence of the training yard, and sighs. “I can’t believe it’s that obvious.”

“Only to those of us who are trained in such matters. He hides it well, but the signs are there.”

“Signs?”

“You would have to ask him.”

“I will. I just… give it time.”

* * *

 They’re halfway through the Emprise du Lion, fighting their way through a mine, and… _fuck_. Gal knew red lyrium was people, but when he sees the cages, the wide-eyed villagers… As he leaves Varric to unlock the last carriage, he and Dorian exchange a glance. They must both be thinking the same thing. (How they met. The cells in Redcliffe. The broken sky.)

He blames that for making him distracted. He’s got the last red templar lieutenant down, and he’s finishing hi - _it_ off, all but decapitating it, when a pommel hits him in the side of the head.

Not the last of them.

He’s wearing a helmet, but the strength the red lyrium gives them - He loses his balance, cursing. Metal to the face is never good. Blue-green light flares around him. He’s got his arse in the snow, grabbing for his sword and backing away from the half-human thing advancing on him, when he realises what the light was. A barrier.

He’s wrapping his hand round the hilt, bringing his sword up, when the templar bursts into flames. Gal can barely feel the heat for the barrier; the fire doesn’t get near him. The templar falls, screaming, scrabbling as if to try and get the armour off. Dorian steps neatly round it, opening its throat with a rough swipe of his staff blade and a look of distaste.

Then he looks to Gal, crouches to meet his eyes. “All right?”

“Uh…” Gal’s aware he’s not moving, blinking stupidly. “I’m fine.”

“Hm. That doesn’t look like my idea of fine.” Dorian offers a hand, and Gal takes it, climbing to his feet. “Can I take a look?”

Gal squints at him. “You can heal?”

“I’m far from the best, but I know enough not to make it worse. Hold this for me, would you?” He passes Gal the staff.

Gal takes it. He’s distracted by the thrumming of power beneath the wood, fading to a low hum now there’s no mage to channel it. He wonders how the connection works. Movement of energies around it, maybe. Transference -

He’s jerked back to reality by Dorian unbuckling the straps on his helmet, lifting it away. Dorian turns, passing it to - Varric, who Gal hadn’t even realised was over here. “Come here,” Dorian says, taking Gal’s face in his hands and turning his head, examining where the wound must be. “Well, I must say, I’m impressed.”

Gal wants to think about warm, calloused hands. About how gentle they are. He doesn’t. “Can you do anything with it?”

“Something, yes. I can at least make sure the great Inquisitor isn’t walking in circles because he’s got a concussion.”

“That bad?” He looks as he says it, tries to see past the glow of magic.

Dorian’s eyes are half-closed with focus, and he’s frowning. “Not… quite. There’s nothing broken, but it’ll make a fine bruise without some kind of magic.”

Gal sighs. That’s all he needs, sitting in judgement with prisoners wondering why he’s purple.

And then the magic’s surrounding him, washing through him, warm and pleasant. It tastes like honey on his tongue - the stuff they used to get from the hives in the grounds, when home was still home. He can’t help it: his eyes slide shut at the feeling, at the sudden absence of pain that’s like having a weight lifted from his shoulders.

When he opens them again, Dorian’s watching him. A second passes, then: “Well, you only seem to be dazed by my magical prowess. It could be worse.” Dorian’s gaze is almost clinical, but Gal saw the way it lingered on his mouth. A second. Enough.

He can see all the colours in Dorian’s eyes. It would be nothing to lean forwards and -

Dorian’s chin is high, as if daring him to act on the thought, and his eyes are like steel. He steps back, raising an eyebrow, and says, “I have to compliment you on the way you handle a staff. Now, if you’re quite finished playing with it - “

Gal feels himself flush. He offers it wordlessly. He’s probably glaring, but he doesn’t care. That wasn’t an accident.

Dorian takes it, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his face, but there’s something behind it, too: almost… fear. He’s already strapping the staff onto his back and making to set off.

Gal wants to take his shoulder, drag him back and ask him what this thing between them is. He doesn’t. Not here. Not now.

* * *

 “Have you told him?”

Dorian most definitely does not freeze. Instead he places his rook and looks at Cullen. And if even _Cullen_ has seen it - Cullen, the man who’s oblivious to what must be fifty starstruck recruits - then he must be in trouble. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Cullen just raises a brow. “He seems to return the sentiment. But I think you knew that.” He makes his move.

Dorian considers what to do next, and yes, he’s unsure whether he means the chess match or this entire… thing. “Are you going to continue muttering nonsense at me, or are we going to play?”

Cullen sighs. “I never thought I’d see you hesitating to _talk_.”

“Yes, well. Sometimes things need more finesse than awkward mumbling. You could stand to take notes.”

Cullen doesn’t take the bait, just continues looking at him with that hideously earnest expression. They should put it on recruitment posters; they’d have people running for Skyhold’s gates. “Is it wrong that I want to see a friend happy?”

It’s Dorian’s turn to sigh, his ire fading by the second. Anything would be better than all this terrible, needless… concern. It’s frankly odd. Back home, everyone would be telling him to keep such things to himself, to, if possible, not entertain these thoughts at all. Not announce them, act on them. He rubs a hand across his mouth, making a faint pretence of considering the board. “Not wrong, no. Unwise is a different matter altogether.”

“Unwise is denying yourself happiness for the sake of…” Cullen’s lip curls, and he says disgustedly, “… _appearances_. You’ve done more than enough here to prove your loyalty. For the Maker’s sake, just speak to him.”

* * *

 Sera looses an arrow with something hanging from it, cloth fluttering in the air. Gal watches it go.

It embeds itself by a window on the mages’ tower they’re building, and he asks, “Were those Cullen’s smalls?”

She grins at him. “You bet they were.”

“I… Do I want to ask?”

“Nah. You’d say something about being responsible, and being united, and blah blah blah… Or you’d laugh. Then I’d have to change _everything_.”

“Is there a reason you called me here?”

She sighs, lowering her bow and turning to him. “Look. Get your head out of your arse and be happy, yeah?”

“What - ?”

“You and Magister Fancypants. Want to throw up watching you. Just find a cupboard and do it already.”

“I can’t just… Sera.”

She reaches into the basket at her feet, ties something to another arrow. Something frilly. She says as she nocks the arrow, aims, “He wants it. You want it. Why’s it so hard?” She looses it, and then snickers. “Heh. _Hard_.”

“Were those Josephine’s?”

The grin returns. “Might be. Knew they’d be pink.”

_“Sera - !”_

“What? It’s not like she was using ‘em.”

* * *

 Dorian’s reclining in what’s rapidly becoming his armchair, halfway through _The Tale of the Champion_ , the revised edition (and no, he’s not about to tell Varric), when he hears heavy footsteps on the stairs. He’d know them anywhere, in or out of armour. He gives a mental sigh, trying to prepare himself. If Cullen’s right and the subject is worth broaching, there must be some way of doing it without causing too much awkwardness. He’s been lining up the words in his head, wondering whether _blase_ will be the right approach or whether this calls for something gentler.

He looks up from his book as the footsteps stop. Dorian absentmindedly watches as Gal swallows, remembering the way that stubble felt under his fingers. Gal hesitates, and Dorian wonders. Perhaps this is it, and they’ll finally discuss this quiet, inadvisable thing that seems to be between them. Gal says, “Dorian, I - “

Dorian listens with casual interest. The fact his throat is dry and appallingly, his palms may actually be sweaty? Purely a coincidence.

“I need you.”

Aha.

“We need a party for Adamant, and you’re a reliable mage - “

_Oh_. He wants to set something on fire, but instead he says, “ _Reliable?_ I’m hurt. Exceptional, perhaps.”

Gal gives him the slightest, softest smile and says quietly, “That too.”

Oh, this is definitely dangerous. He sighs. “When?”

“We’ve got three days to prepare.”

And then his head is filled with battle plans, and there’s little time to consider trivialities such as the shadows on Gal’s cheekbones, or the potential softness of long brown hair, or the bright interest in a fine pair of eyes.

After Adamant, he tells himself. There will be time after Adamant.

 


	9. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promptfic. Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

This is how it happens, because despite the fact he’s been told he saunters everywhere and despite his sartorial choices, Dorian is ultimately a coward:

The space between them is so small. It would be so easy to cross, with a few too many drinks or with an “oops, I thought you were in need of a bedwarmer” kiss or with the offer of…  _something._ He isn’t sure what.  _Come up to my room and make sure neither of us can walk straight in the morning? Have a drink with me? Let me wander into your bed and your life and perhaps never leave, that would be marvellous?_

He… can’t. He could just about do this at home, but here, where everything is different and the general populace is already glaring at him, and where he’s uncertain, and where there’s the possibility that it might just  _mean_ something… No.

It’s the last one that’s the problem. He’s not sure he could stand being kicked out afterwards, or the awkward silences and half-said things in the following days. Such things wouldn’t suit Gal - the man seems so abominably  _honest,_ except when he’s pretending he isn’t scared shitless by carrying an Inquisition on his shoulders or trying not to twitch at being called  _Trevelyan._

Honest. Yes. So perhaps Gal wouldn’t kick him out and lie about where they’ve been. Perhaps Gal would kiss him, properly, as if it  _matters,_ or take his hand in front of -

 _Kaffas._ No, no, no. That way lies madness. He remembers this, and it’s terrifying, it’s unwise, it feels…  _Wonderful,_ a small voice in his mind says, whenever he looks at the great big idiot doing something perfectly innocuous like reading his books or, Maker forbid,  _smiling_ at him, and he does his best to quash it. It’s not as if some absentminded flirting, a few scraps of kindness and something like friendship and the odd heated look mean that Gal wants anything more.

He can’t be a bedwarmer again, not after everything he’s left to be  _honest_ , to be himself _._  He can’t take the disappointment if that’s all Gal wants.

He can’t -

The space between them is so small, and would be so easy to cross. He doesn’t.

* * *

Could just be a game. Could be Dorian’s too polite to outright laugh at him and the flirting’s a way of laughing with him, instead. Dorian’s kind, no matter what he pretends; it could be that. Just because Dorian looks at him sometimes like there might be something, it doesn’t mean… 

Gal keeps wrapping the bandage round Dorian’s bicep, pressing the poultice underneath more firmly to the wound. A Freeman archer, and a graze with an arrow. It’ll leave a scar unless Dorian sees a healer back at Skyhold, but Dorian doesn’t look like he cares; he just asked Gal if he was all right, no joking to it, and he’s not mentioned it since. He’s been too busy cursing Freemen and talking about improving his offensive spells.

Gal’s busy trying to ignore the shift of warm muscle under his hands and the steady breathing from the man sitting next to him, and it takes him a few seconds to realise that Dorian’s gone silent. He looks up, frowning.

Dorian’s watching him, intent. Usually there’s that sharp focus in his eyes, but here and now, it’s something gentler that Gal can’t name. 

Then it clears, and Dorian smiles at him. “Finest nursemaid I’ve ever had.”

Gal half-grins, shakes his head and starts to tie off the bandages.

“You’re not half as scary as you look, are you?” Dorian’s tone makes Gal look up; it’s soft, curious. Fond.

Their eyes meet again, and that gentleness has returned to Dorian’s face. Despite his words, there’s nothing mocking about it, no sting. He blinks and almost looks afraid, like he’s said too much.

Gal swallows, and thinks about how easy it would be to just lean across and -

“Why do you think I need the warpaint?” he says instead, trying not to feel Dorian’s eyes on him and waiting for the others.


	10. Liminal

He’ll speak to him. Dorian decides he’ll ask Gal what this potential between them is, whether it’s a game or there’s more to it. He decides that if it is a game, he won’t play it. He is so very _tired_ ; it all made much more sense in Tevinter, where such things were the norm, but here the people are different and he is different. He feels himself being changed by his days here, subtly, like the sea eroding rock. It’s gradual, but it’s there. It might be that the enduring, charmingly inelegant bluntness of Fereldans has rubbed off on him. And Gal… Gal is different, too: so utterly unlike the magisters’ sons and the people in the brothels, so unlike the tittering nobles. So bright, so strong and so strange.

A Tevinter altus, bewitched by a Southern almost-templar. There must be some sort of joke there. Perhaps the Maker has a sense of humour.

And perhaps there are other things, too. One of Felix’s last letters is tucked into his pack. There had only been two more after that before his death, and Dorian hadn’t even been in Tevinter to see him one last time. Felix wouldn’t have wanted it, anyway; would have hated the thought of a friend watching him wasting away, especially when there was more to be done here. It still stings.

He’d asked to tell Alexius the news himself, giving him the note Felix had left. Better than some anonymous Skyhold messenger, at least. Gereon collapsed, sobbing. Dorian stood on the other side of the bars, useless, helpless, and then returned to his rooms to reread each and every one of Felix’s letters, swigging something strong and probably dwarven from the bottle.

 _A man to whom I once compared all others_ , he’d called Alexius. A mistake. That was Alexius’ son.

There had been an aside in that third-to-last letter, false-casual and with the air of smirking concern that was so very Felix. _You write about Trevelyan a lot, you know. Are you ever going to tell him?_

He’d played at blitheness, ignoring that completely. Now he thinks, _Yes_.

After Adamant, he tells himself, but then Adamant - or rather, what he thought Adamant would be - changes drastically. They’re flung headfirst through a rift. There’s one awful moment where time stretches and distorts, flying by and then crawling, so utterly _wrong_ , and everything in him is certain that Gal didn’t make it -

\- and then he’s climbing to his feet (a Tevinter in the Fade, _again_ , the Chantry will shit themselves) and Gal is there. Bashed about and exhausted, but there. Steady and breathing.

This man is terribly good at _not dying_. It’s as if death finds him too much trouble to contend with. And Maker, Dorian has never been quite so relieved that someone is troublesome. Well, perhaps at Haven.

The journey through the Fade is… eventful. Gal spends it tense, looking around with curiosity and not a little fear. Very occasionally his lips will move; on a mage it’d be preparation to cast, but Dorian realises that he’s probably readying one of his little will tricks. The Warden with them has been doing the same, now and again, one hand to his sword and the other to his forehead.

Dorian finds himself commenting on small things, odd things, eccentricities of the Fade; anything that will make Gal turn his way. Gal’s stance will loosen, and he’ll cock his head, their eyes meeting. Dorian recognises it from Redcliffe. Gal is seeking the familiar, trying to find reassurance in it.

Gal explores, frowning at things, wandering into dark corners. He lays spirits to rest with objects, with murmured reassurances - and Dorian has heard stories, but he hadn’t known it was quite this _literal_ ; he’d always thought it was a metaphor for some of them having unfinished business, and he wonders if this would only work in the Fade, where metaphors are made manifest. Not the point, however. He puts that to the back of his mind, lets it simmer while he focuses on the important things.

There is a moment, somewhere in the eldritch rawness of that place, where Gal stops, pauses. Dorian comes to stand next to him, wondering what’s holding him up. He’s staring at a very small, very well-arranged graveyard. The stones are simpler here - they’re pauper’s tombs, or perhaps they’re simply less flashy about everything in the South, if this piece of the Fade is indeed taken from southerners’ ideas and memories - and they’re blank.

No. Dorian looks again, focuses, and sees…

_Blackwall: Himself._

_Vivienne: Irrelevance._

He remembers whose realm they’re in, and knows. On instinct he looks for his own name, but it isn’t there. Perhaps it’s assumed that he knows his own worst fear. He has a few ideas; he’s uncertain one in particular stands out.

“What are you seeing?” Dorian asks, unable to help himself. For there must be something important there: Gal’s squinting as if trying to untangle a particularly complex knot.

After a moment, Gal murmurs, “Temptation.” He sounds as if he’s quoting something.

…Ah.

“I beg your pardon?” But Dorian knows perfectly well. Makes sense, part of him admits. It’s simplistic, putting a bevy of nasty niggling doubts into one little box, but yes.

Gal startles slightly, looking at him wide-eyed, gaze flitting briefly to his mouth. Then he seems to shake himself. “I… We should go.”

Dorian takes one last glance at the morbid little place over his shoulder, and sees it, the smallest and simplest stone of the lot.

_Gal: Cages._

And then they’re halfway down a slope and the Nightmare is laughing. It’s a stereotypical, villainous thing, straight from a story told to shivering children. He wants to say it doesn’t send a shiver down his spine, too. _“So the old shame is here. The false prophet. What will you say when they kill in your name? Will your family finally be proud?”_

Gal’s teeth are gritted, and he walks on, silent. Dorian decides not to press. The others take their turns to be prodded at, and so Dorian is ready when the demon turns its attention to him.

But Gal’s eyes are upon him, too. He suspects there may be a conversation. There have been too many unsaid things between them of late.

* * *

“What the Nightmare said about your father… What did it mean?”

And here he’d hoped Gal would have enough politeness not to prod. It’s taken a few days, at least; there was the conversation about Tevinters in the Fade, and he hadn’t known what to do with the sad way Gal had looked at him and tried to offer comfort when he’d once again sighed over the stupidity of his people. That’s becoming depressingly regular, these days.

He braces himself. “Ah, the awkward personal questions. Such fun. Have we known each other so long already?”

When he turns from the shelves, Gal is watching him, jaw tense and that wide-eyed wariness in his eyes again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

No, of course he didn’t. There was no cruelty intended in the question. It’s that and Gal’s worry, the kindness in the step back, that settle it. Dorian takes pity and says, with a sigh, “I said I wasn’t too popular back home, yes? Well, it’s all a long and very boring story; nobles and bloodlines and such. One that might be familiar, from what I hear.” He raises an eyebrow. An invitation, or a change of subject.

(It’s not the whole truth. It’s not watching his father curse him and throw him out. It’s not losing sleep practising so he’d have a new spell to show him in the morning, watching the pride dawn in his eyes. It’s not the love. But it’s something.)

It’s Gal’s turn to exhale, his eyes closing. And then he says, “They disowned me.”

Dorian wonders whether to be flippant, to try for a laugh and to wipe that terrible sadness from Gal’s face, but all that comes out is the truth. “I see. I’m sorry. When?”

Gal rubs at his forehead as if it pains him. “When I… when the Inquisition was announced. After the news of ‘the Herald’ had spread far enough. I didn’t even want the name, I tried to…” He leans a shoulder against the bookshelves, his head bowed. “It was probably always going to happen.”

“Always? Even without the glowy hand and the mystical prophecies?”

“Those were just another excuse.”

 _The old shame_ , Dorian remembers, and wonders what the Trevelyans could possibly have found to be ashamed of. Gal is… Dorian wants to step forwards, to touch him; to lay a hand on his shoulder and say something terribly sappy like, _They should be proud_ ; to press the words against his lips, mouth to mouth. He wants… too much, all told.

Instead he says, “Do they not like bravery? Or dashing feats of heroism?”

Gal looks up and says, “Those matter less when they can’t marry you off to some noblewoman because you’re turning up in the wrong beds, and too many of them. They’d have kept trying, but then… The Conclave was to say I’d still serve. That went…” He waves a hand despairingly.

Dorian considers that. It’s another half-truth, things not-quite-said. He remembers the day Gal actually got drunk, the muttered words - _caught with the Coulters’ son_ \- and wonders. He says, “Ah, yes. Familiar indeed.” He didn’t mean for it to sound quite so bitter.

Their eyes meet in the silence, and he wonders whether they’re going to speak of it. Whether this will be the day they finally bow to temptation.

Then Gal is looking upwards to the rookery, and saying, “There was something - Sorry. Leliana.”

Two steps forwards, one back. Dorian watches him go, thinking that Gal needs to improve the quality of his excuses.

* * *

 

Half the story apparently won’t suffice.

He reads the letter, holds it in hands he wants to pretend aren’t shaking. He recognises that handwriting: neat and a little showy, a few too many curlicues. It’s too much and not enough, all at once. A piece of home, except home doesn’t exist anymore.

Gal is watching him with pity and far too much understanding - except he _can’t_ understand. It’s different here. Dorian was dismissed without even the need for idolisation and mysterious Fade-marks. It was sufficient to be who, _what_ he was.

He tries for something wry, anything, so he won’t have to think. It doesn’t work. He remembers a half-made bed and being dragged out of a mansion. _Vulgati_ , spat in his face. It would be hard to pull such a stunt over here, but he’s certain they’d find a way if they were determined - House Pavus has connections, after all. He tries to laugh it off, but when he talks about traps, about possibly having to kill, Gal’s fists clench.

They won’t expose themselves so baldly, of course, but it’s the thought that counts.

He wants to drink far too much, but he needs his mind clear for this. Besides, he won’t be half-awake and pained after having drowned in excess; it would provide smug satisfaction to every rumour-monger in Qarinus. And Minrathous. And maybe even… That’s beside the point. He’s trying desperately to distract himself, with little success.

He watches Gal go, and sighs. He supposes he hoped  his family would just wash their hands of him. Or… or perhaps even apologise, ask him back. He’s not sure which would be worse.

They set out the next day, just the two of them. He’s hardly in the mood to have his dirty laundry aired in front of their comrades. Besides, the Inquisition has made things calmer on the roads here, and they can handle themselves well enough; it’s unlikely they’ll be fighting any dragons. The ride to Redcliffe passes mostly in silence except for a moment when Gal turns to him and says, as the horses tramp through mud, “Whatever happens… there’s always a place for you here, if you want it. I just thought you should know.”

Dorian looks at him in surprise, and tries to smile. “I know. But thank you.”

Gal smiles back, small as it is. Then he’s turning to squint into the sun, carrying on, as if the words were were barely anything at all. Never mind Dorian staring after him like a fool. Dorian wonders if he’ll still mean it, when all this is done and he sees the mess that is Dorian’s history.

* * *

 

In the end, it’s all too much. The empty tavern. His father, a funny sort of retainer. Having it all dragged out in front of Gal, who stands, patient, silent, listening to every word, and Maker, he thinks those sad eyes might kill him.

And after Gal learns of his _affliction_ , his _deviance_ , there’s the moment where Gal is looking at him, unreadable in the shadows. “You… might have to explain that.” And surely, _surely_ Gal knows, otherwise “barking up the wrong tree” wouldn’t quite cover it.

“Did I stutter?” he snaps. “Men, and the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“I’ve… more than heard of it,” Gal says. The words are quiet, and Gal looks at him with those terribly, terribly blue eyes, shoulders tensing and cheeks pinkening visibly, even in the low light. Gal stares at him and then at his father, eyes wide. “All this is over _that?_ ”

A luxury, to be only an _embarrassment_ , something he surpassed long ago. To be allowed mistakes and indiscretions. How different the Marches must be. It’s that, and it’s everything else. He can’t help himself. It’s the flirting and the significant looks, the gentle touches and the things they haven’t said. 

He loses his patience. “ _No!_ The Herald of Andraste! I am shocked and scandalised.” When Gal raises an eyebrow in that way that says he is, however quietly, indulging him, Dorian adds, “You’re not exactly subtle, O Lord Inquisitor.”

And there it is. A lack of subtlety indeed. Is he playing the game if he acknowledges it exists?

Gal’s jaw tenses at that, his eyes widening slightly before he clamps down on the reaction, and his cheeks are most definitely pink, somewhere under ink and stubble.

“So _that’s_ what this is about.” And Maker, why does this have to be happening in front of his father? His father, who is looking at them in shock. And he could take that look of surprised disappointment if it was directed at him the way it usually is, but the way his father’s eyes land on Gal…

He’s speaking before his better, or at least more sensible nature can tell him otherwise. “ _No_. You don’t get to make those assumptions. You know nothing about the Inquisitor.” Because Gal has nothing to be ashamed of. And this, whatever it is, is his and it’s Gal’s. It’s not _the family name_ and it’s not _for the benefit of the Inquisition_ ; it’s theirs. He will not have it dragged into the light and dissected. Not today.

Gal looks at him in surprise.

When he’s on the brink of leaving, steadying himself and considering his options, Gal puts a hand on his shoulder, and asks, “What do you want to do?”

And he turns back to his father, and tries one last time. There will never be answers - or at least, never the answers he _wants_ \- but perhaps it’s worth an attempt. Perhaps this time… He wants another memory, one that’s not _Get out. You are no son of mine._

* * *

 

After he meets Gal outside the tavern, they begin the ride to Skyhold. It’s strange: he remembers this, what seems like a lifetime ago now; nearly the same, just a little skewed around the edges. Walking out of Redcliffe with a trail of rebel mages, the strange, silent not-yet-Inquisitor beside him. He almost doesn’t recognise that man looking at Gal, though the silence is similar. He spots the concerned looks; Gal is truly awful at hiding them.

They’ve reached Skyhold and dismounted, and they’re walking into the deserted library when Gal finally opens his mouth. Dorian expects something about _What did your father say?_ Instead Gal asks, “Are you all right?”

He tries to think of an answer that isn’t, No, and maybe I never will be. But the concern is touching.

After that and Dorian running in mental circles, trying to find it in his heart to listen to his father and deflecting more of those relentlessly concerned, soft looks, Gal hesitates. When he speaks, it’s quiet. “You said something about blood magic. About him trying to ‘change you.’” He frowns at Dorian.

Which is, of course, how Dorian ends up explaining the ritual, the plans, his voice blunt even as it shakes. It rather ruins his father’s apologies, the time he’s spent since wondering if there’s been any change. Just recounting it has him gritting his teeth.

Gal’s eyes are wide, and his knuckles are white. “I thought I must have… I thought I’d be wrong. That there was something else I didn’t know, or how could he… how could he look you in the eye? How could he ever want… _Fuck_.”

Gal makes a movement, and Dorian knows he wants to march back to Redcliffe himself. Murder is in his eyes.

“Gal,” he tries. There’s no response. “ _Gal!_ ”

The man himself startles.

“I do _not_ need my honour defending. I can do that very well on my own. He’ll be on a boat by now, if he’s still in Ferelden at all. Thank you, but this is mine. I’ll resolve it.”

Gal stares at him, running a hand through windswept brown hair, and then nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He pauses there rather than leaving, gaze on his feet, seeming to search for words.

Dorian remembers Gal’s shock, how appalled he was at the veritable opera unfolding before him. His own harsh responses. He braces himself, and he’s not certain he can look at Gal, so he addresses the Geographies section next to his left ear. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

Gal looks up, steps forwards. “I think you’re bloody brave. It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.” He laughs under his breath, and then that intense blue gaze is directed somewhere near the wall. “And here I thought I couldn’t admire you more. Stupid of me.”

And Dorian is trying to find the words, because there must be something witty and light he can respond with, but what comes out instead is, “The things you say…” There’s not even a little sarcasm in it. He didn’t have the time, or the strength.

That short, nervous laugh again, and Gal mutters to his feet, shaking his head, “You’re right. I’m not subtle at all.” When Gal looks at Dorian, something in his eyes… It takes the breath out of Dorian’s chest, and he has to wrest his composure back. Yes, an utter lack of subtlety.

He can’t help the words that come to him. Perhaps it’s that admiring gaze that prompts him to try and explain. “Is it bravery if I didn’t have a choice? Living a lie - it festers inside of you, like poison. You’ve got to fight for what’s in your heart.”

Gal looks at him, almost painfully earnest, and swallows. “I… I agree.” He almost looks as if he wants to say something more, then it’s gone.

Gal politely refuses his hasty offer of drinking company, but puts a surprisingly gentle hand on his arm and tells him, “I meant what I said,” as he leaves.

Dorian watches him go and decides that drinking definitely seems like a very, very good idea.


	11. Out Of My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to drink myself into a stupor. Join me, if you’re of a mind.”

He raises the tankard to his lips and takes another mouthful. He’s falling into old habits again, even so far from home. He can almost imagine his father watching, perhaps with some head-shaking for good measure, with that quiet disappointment. Always the bloody _disappointment._

He thinks that aside from the glaring foreigners and the freezing weather, he could almost be back in Minrathous or Qarinus, in some house of ill repute or some dark tavern close to the nearest Circle, a drink in his hand and half-hushed sniggering at his back. It seems that some things never change.

He grimaces and knocks back the ale, at which point his grimace intensifies. _Kaffas._ It’s dwarven, the sort of stuff that makes the eventual hangover a relief by comparison - but then, he asked for it, and so he has only himself to blame. (He went to Redcliffe. He bothered to open that letter in the first place. He has only himself to blame.) He shakes off that thought and sets to some consummate drinking. He’s allowed himself tonight. Tomorrow he’ll remove all traces of excess, straighten his spine, put on some decent robes and firmly shove down any self-pity that may attempt to arise. He’ll be decent enough to run off on whatever goosechase the Inquisition sends him on, kill a few Venatori and likely throw in a joke or two for flavour.

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, he drinks.

And then time runs ahead of him, smooth, the moments sliding into each other. Everything is, for a short while, almost… easy. No dead friends and hopelessly disappointed family back home. No ancient magister doing what magisters do best. No memory of his father with tears in his eyes, pleading. No hole in the sky.

Instead there are… other things. More pleasant ones. He thinks of a quiet voice, strong hands and a steady gaze. When he came to try and foil Gereon’s insane plan, he hadn’t expected the Herald to be such a fascinating specimen. A man so stoic shouldn’t be allowed a sense of humour as well; it simply isn’t fair. Silent and steady, but with a laugh like sin. It would be interesting to see such careful control fall, he admits in the privacy of his own head. It’s a thought he’s had while sober, but it’s usually been quickly tucked away, too much of a distraction.

Distractions. Yes, there’s been little time for those recently, even enjoyable ones. There have been offers. The first one was in Haven: a soldier offering to accompany him when he went back to his makeshift bunkhouse from the Tavern, obviously wanting to be seen with the menace from Tevinter. All too familiar, and tedious. There have been others since, most notably a painfully Fereldan offer of “a drink, if you’d like one, er, ser.” He’s politely declined all of them. After all, none of them have attracted his interest. He’d like to say that he’s been too busy, that his attention has been focused on the bloody great tear in the world; that he certainly hasn’t been enraptured by the most unexpected candidate of all, their fine, holy Inquisitor.

And Gal’s been looking back. Don’t think he doesn’t know. He’s far from dense, or he’d be dead a hundred times over by now. He’s seen the way Gal’s eyes linger, and he’s noticed the abrupt losing of words, and he knows what those muttered asides mean; they were flirting with just enough plausible deniability, until Gal had thrown denial out of the nearest window. He admires such bluntness even as it terrifies him. The man had the foolish tenacity to call him _brave,_ of all things.

So now they’re on on equal level. Mutual acknowledgement of mutual interest. He supposes the next move is his.

And what a move it could be. He closes his eyes a moment, taken by the imagining of a Marches accent in his ear and that familiar tattooed mouth on his neck.

That’s quite enough of that. He shakes himself and drains his drink, then climbs to his feet, his head swimming with drink and lust: never a good combination, until they’re just the _right_ one. In a mood like this, he’s too likely to say something stupid. Something true. Evidently this will be a night for bedroom drunkenness, not tavern drunkenness.

He buys what’s either a spare fire grenade or a bottle of whisky on his way out of the tavern, despite the barman asking if he hasn’t had enough - “Nowhere close, I think you’ll find,” was his sharp answer - and carries it as he makes his unsteady way towards his quarters. The hour is late enough that he should make the journey unbothered. A glass or two and he might sleep. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He takes a mouthful from the bottle as he goes, and the burn spreads pleasantly.

He’s most of the way there when he hears a faint sound, and it takes him a moment to understand it - for some reason or other, his mind is somewhat slow. He pauses until the matter resolves itself: someone is singing a little way away. In faint confusion, he watches himself opening the wooden door he was about to pass, and he finds himself at the top of a staircase.

The song is clearer now. He’d think it was a shanty - he catches words about the open sea, and the space of the sky - but it’s softer, gentler. Something about lost love, or a love one’s returning to; it’s unclear. There’s distance involved, whatever the situation is. The voice is a fine one: rich, but with an appealing roughness to it that speaks of feeling and commiseration. It sounds like whisky, rainy days and a lover’s kiss. It’s a man’s voice, most definitely. It winds up the stairs and then up his spine, and soothes the ears even as it pains the heart - and look, all this drinking is turning him into a truly underwhelming poet.

He realises he’s halfway down the stairs, following the sound. He wants to tell his feet to stop being so inquisitive; his mind has little say in the matter. His steps echo on stone, and below it, always, is that gentle song. He enters a small hallway, and turns the corner, until he comes to another door. It’s ajar, and on the other side, someone is singing about returning to a joyful lover. He opens it a crack, wincing at the creak, and… ah. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s beginning to wonder if the Maker is laughing at him.

Gal looks round in surprise, the song stopping abruptly. He’s been shelving books, because he’s in some sort of very small… library. Yes, now Dorian vaguely remembers a conversation - Gal telling him with unusual brightness about an arcane treasure trove he’d found.

_Dorian,_ said quietly but with cheer, as Gal glanced around at the windows, at the ceiling, seeming a little transfixed, _they’ve got the first three volumes of Volkner down there._

_The ones that have been banned for thirty years?_

That surprising, infectious grin. _Those._

_You really are in love with this place, aren’t you?_

There had been some muttering and neck-scratching, but the answer had undoubtedly been yes. He’d promised to have a look at Gal’s intriguing discovery. And now here he is.

Gal swallows, looking caught-out. “Dorian.”

He waves an obliging hand. “No, please continue.” It comes out as more of a mumble. Hah. He must be turning into Gal. The silence continues, and he says, “Is there a reason you’re squinting at me?”

Gal shelves the last of the books and then takes a few steps towards him. “What is that stuff? Have you had any?”

“I’m perfectly sober.” He pauses. “No, that’s a lie. But I’m not yet unconscious.”

Gal gently takes the whisky, uncorks it and has a sniff. Winces. Then he looks at Dorian, just _looks,_ with that terrible, potent combination of pity and disappointment.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Dorian orders, leaning against a bookshelf. He looks around, counting cobwebs, and mutters, “Not you too. That’s just what I need.”

“What - ?” Gal says, and starts forwards. He seems genuinely confused. Suddenly Dorian wonders if the disappointment was a product of his own imagination.

Dorian addresses the ceiling. “He begged me to come home.”

“Oh,” Gal says, quietly, and then there’s the low sound of a cork. When Dorian looks, he sees Gal taking a glug of whisky. (And it is not the sort of thing one _glugs.)_ And grimacing. There may even be the hint of a cough. The part of him not weighed down by everything that happened in Redcliffe - and before, too, perhaps right from the start - finds it faintly comical.

“You really are a startling lightweight,” he remarks. “But I appreciate the commiseration.”

Gal nods, and comes to lean on the shelves next to him, with a questioning expression.

Swallowing, Dorian drags the words up from somewhere. “He said that this time… this time I really might get myself killed. That he was afraid for his only child. Strange to hear such things from a man who wanted to…” He runs a hand through his hair. “He was prepared to gamble my body, my mind…” He inhales shakily, trying to find the words; normally they come so easily. “I’ve never seen my father cry before.” For a moment his own eyes sting, but it’s only a moment and then it’s gone. He hasn’t cried - at least, not when this close to sobriety - in years, and he’s not about to now. It’s not as if self-pity will do any good. “I wasn’t entirely sure it was possible. He was certain I’d regret coming here.” He focuses at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, and realises that Gal is in front of him now.

“Do you?” Gal asks, quietly.

He looks into those steady blue eyes. “I might feel differently once Corypheus turns us all into lyrium sculptures, but… no, I don’t.” It’s too much honesty for one evening, and he swiftly looks away, pretending to be fascinated by the nearest wall.

“I’m glad you’re here.” The words aren’t the half-mumble Dorian’s come to expect from Gal whenever they reach the subject of anything emotional: they’re strong, said with certainty. Dorian feels that hand drift upwards and briefly, into his hair. There’s an odd tenderness in it, and he blinks at Gal in surprise, their eyes meeting.

There it is again, that almost-afraid, caught-out look, as if Gal’s surprised by his own actions, and Gal swiftly takes his hand away, stepping back.

Dorian takes a moment to rearrange his thoughts, and then sighs. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. What of your own family? Less blood magic, I’d imagine.” He remembers evasive, half-muttered answers, and wonders why he’s even bothered to ask.

“Less blood magic,” Gal says, with a wan half-smile. “My father was barely around. My mother sold me to the Chantry because I was a disappointment. Washed their hands of me after the Conclave.” He has another try at the whisky, and doesn’t seem to like it any better.

A moment passes. Normally Dorian would fill it, if just with meaningless chatter or an apology for prodding at old wounds, but it’s been an exhausting day and he’s some way from sobriety. “Ah,” he says, and then, “Give that here, before you injure yourself.” He filches the bottle.

“Good idea.” The sadness leaves Gal’s face and leaves behind something almost… wistful.

“What?”

“Remembering the last time I got drunk in a library.” A smile tugs at Gal’s lips, with the sort of subtle mischief Dorian’s learned to spot through patience and paying far too much attention. “I was sixteen, and I was with a mage then, too.”

“We do make fine drinking partners. If overly fond of spirits.”

With a raised brow and a shake of his head, Gal says, “He’d stolen some senior enchanter’s wine. I don’t remember what, or how much.”

Dorian crosses his arms. “And you had your usual tolerance?”

Gal’s expression turns sheepish. “Lower. I was… lanky back then.”

Dorian tries to put _Gal_ and _lanky_ in the same thought, and fails. “And how did that end, then?”

Gal looks abruptly away, the slightest pinkness crawling up his neck, and the question is answered.

“I see,” Dorian says, with a lascivious smirk. “Well well. Was this when you were in training?”

Gal nods, rubbing his neck awkwardly, and mutters something like, “It was just a kiss. A few.”

“How very forbidden.” Dorian maintains his cheer, despite his suddenly dry throat and his awareness that they’re walking a line. “Do you usually go about kissing mages?”

Gal’s eyes meet his. “Only sometimes.”

The air in the room has grown thick, and the space between them is suddenly, frighteningly surmountable.

He wonders. They could say that it was something simpler, safer: a drunken one night stand, even though only one of them is anywhere near drunk. Not as if it _mattered._ It was the drink talking, and if he said anything stupid or honest then that was the drink, too. It would answer any awkward questions in the morning. It might let him get this out of his system. However, he has the feeling that Gal would refuse him - and he wonders what Gal wants, precisely, because if this is a seduction it’s been a lengthy one. And if Gal accepted… well. This would be something relegated to drunken stupidity, and that would destroy whatever else it might have been. A line drawn under the whole thing, we’ll never speak of it again, so on.

But he wants to speak of it again. He wants more than words in the dark and a parting in daylight. He wants…

And he’s going to stop now, before he frightens himself.

Gal moves across the room to examine a few shelves, safely putting distance between them, and Dorian wonders if he’s had a similar thought.

Dorian ponders the way forward and then says, “You should sing more often. You have a good voice.”

Gal looks at him in surprise. “I… Thank you. It’s been a long time.”

Dorian sighs, letting his head fall back against the shelves and closing his eyes. “Do you know what I miss most? The songs.” There’s an interested silence, and he continues, “We still sing some of them in Tevene. One thing the language is good for. You’d hear tavern songs, and a few still sang the old verses, though it’s not… the done thing.” He licks his lips absentmindedly, grimaces at the half-taste of alcohol. “For Dumat, ironically” - he snorts at that - “though it’s said Urthemiel appreciated the beauty of music. Not that I’d know. It was far from my area of expertise.”

“Do they still sing the Chant, in the Imperium?” The voice is closer than expected.

He nods. “We do. Though our verses on Andraste are different, to say the least, as I’ve said in the past. I wouldn’t be able to give specifics, I’m rather rusty on my scripture.” He sighs. “At night, sometimes it would drift through the windows as I was working. One of my favourite Circles was close to the tavern district, you see. And I… miss it.”

“I can tell.”

Dorian swiftly opens his eyes, but Gal’s voice is soft and devoid of mockery, so he says, honestly, “It was naive of me, but there was a time… I thought I knew my home. I thought I belonged there.” He frowns, trying to clear his head.

“Not naive. I can’t blame you for hoping.”

“ _I_ can.” The sharpness was unintentional, but it rings loudly in the room. He straightens, knowing he’s outstayed his welcome. “I should have…” He sighs. “That fucking letter. I should have burned it.”

“Dorian - “

“No, I should - “ He waves a hand. “I need to be… somewhere else. Evidently I’m the self-pitying sort of drunk.”

“You were going to your quarters, weren’t you?”

“I was. Before I was distracted by an unexpectedly fine song.”

Pinks creeps into Gal’s cheeks, faint as it is. You’d have to be looking to spot it, and Dorian’s _always_ looking. “ _The Call of Kendrich’s Love,”_ Gal says, quietly. “Good for working to.” He looks away, swiftly, seeming almost guilty - it’s subtle, but there. (Dorian tries not to consider the lyrics he heard, and the line about _eyes like a storm-tossed sea._ Those idle wonderings will lead nowhere good.)

“I should teach you some Imperial pieces, so you can scandalise the locals. But that will have to wait.” He moves to leave.

“I’ll come with you.”

Dorian turns and raises a brow.

But there’s no lascivious intent in Gal’s face. Sadly. He just says, with the subtlest of half-smiles, “Someone should hold the whisky for you.”

“And stop any opportunists who’ll think the Tevinter scum is vulnerable?” Dorian knows from the way Gal tenses, what would be a flinch from any other man, that he’s hit the nail on the head. “I can look after myself, you know.” 

“Believe me, I know. Just… give me this?”

Sighing, Dorian passes the whisky to Gal. “Maker save me from overprotective fools. Come on, then.”

They make their slower-than-usual way to his quarters, and he curses the sadist who gave this place so many _stairs._ It still doesn’t take long for them to reach the small, unobtrusive door.

Behind him, Gal says, “By the way… I’d like that.”

He should really be attempting to find his key. Instead he turns and says, “You’d like what?”

“Tevene songs,” is the quiet reply. Gal’s eyes meet his.

“I see. In that case, I’ll find some satisfyingly blasphemous ones.” He plucks the whisky from Gal’s hands and puts it down next to him, preparing to try and find his key. It promises to be an adventure.

“I’m looking forward to it.” Dorian looks up and Gal’s only a few steps away, watching him and seeming to search for words, eventually settling on, “I’ll - ” Gal backs up a step, the prelude to turning away.

Dorian realises abruptly, his heart jumping into his throat, that they’re only steps away from a decent bed - and despite all his good intentions, something is telling him that _now,_ now is the time, while he’s still drunk enough to be brave. And hah, _brave,_ isn’t that word the problem. He remembers the intensity in Gal’s eyes and the weight of that quiet word, the bloody _certainty._ He reaches out and takes Gal’s elbow, stepping forwards.

Gal swallows as Dorian’s hand moves down his arm, and says, “You should get some rest.”

Dorian lingers at Gal’s wrist, thumb on a hammering pulse that belies those steady words. “Rest. Yes.” He moves closer, slowly, and then -

\- _turns them, presses Gal against the door. Kisses the line inked on that tempting lower lip. Tastes the whisky on Gal’s tongue, uncaring of tomorrow or who might see_ -

 - steps away, letting go of Gal’s hand. Instantly he misses the warmth of skin and a strong heartbeat, and curses himself for it. “You’re right,” he says quietly. _Damn it._

Gal looks at him with a silent, dark-eyed sadness that makes it clear those thoughts were all too obvious, and then says, “Should I call for you tomorrow? We’ve got business in the Emerald Graves.”

The moment lingers in the silence, and they could speak of it; he could push, could ask if they’re ever going to act on this strange charge, and then blame the drink. He doesn’t.

“Please do.” He runs a hand down his face, and then looks at his fingertips: they’re grey with smudged kohl and a day’s worth of grime. “I should be more myself then.”

“Goodnight,” Gal says quietly, and turns to leave.

Dorian picks up the whiskey. With the other hand he rummages for his key and finds it, frustrated by the odd clumsiness in his fingers, and by the fact that it’s not the alcohol causing it. “Goodnight.” He adds, “Try not to get yourself killed while I’m asleep.”

He listens to that low, rough laugh drift to him from the stairs, and wonders what’s wrong with him. He has a terrifying feeling he knows. And it frightens him even more that the thought of the reward is beginning to outweigh the risk.

 


	12. Rumours

Gal doesn’t know what changes things, in the end.

It could be what happened in Redcliffe.  _I’m not subtle at all,_ he remembers saying. It was holding out a hand, or the nearest thing. The look Dorian gave him - surprise and something else mixed in with it. Like someone shown everything they wanted, but too afraid to take it. If Dorian hadn't just poured out his heart and still been shaking from Redcliffe, Gal might’ve - might’ve -

He shouldn’t be thinking of kissing their best Tevinter asset in the Imperial History section. Definitely shouldn’t be thinking of saying,  _I told you. Brave,_ and watching that startled joy dawn on Dorian’s face again. He should be studying plans for the Emprise. He should be…

Fuck.

They know where they stand. He’s tired of pretending otherwise. He thinks Dorian might be, too. He remembers that look again, and the others he’s caught; remembers Dorian looking at him like he wasn’t seeing the Herald or the Inquisitor or  _Lord Trevelyan_  but… Gal. A man who didn’t just matter because of the Anchor, and mattered to  _him._

All Gal knows is that there’s a good, brave man who makes him laugh and who’s barely left his side, who sits and debates magical philosophy with him and answers all his stupidest questions like they’re not stupid at all. Who asks him if he’s all right after missions, and tries to get a laugh out of him when they’re both exhausted and in pain, and swears at the cold but treks through the Emprise and the Approach with him anyway. Who spars with him and buys him drinks after kicking his arse and thanks him for the fight, and who trusts him, and who has a mind that’s sharp and brilliant and… fucking gorgeous. A man who wants  _him,_ for some reason. A man he wants in return.

He didn’t plan it. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s climbing up the stairs to the library, and then – and then he hears the Revered Mother from the Crossroads.

He catches the end of it, and she’s haranguing Dorian, talking about rumours and Dorian’s presence here. He remembers this from his Chantry days. He knows what it looks like when someone goes for the throat. Usually it’s directed at him, but now it’s…

He wouldn’t just leave it if it was anyone else. Couldn’t. When it’s  _Dorian -_

The anger takes over then, bright and burning. His mouth’s running before he can help it, same as when he was in the Chantry and he’d get clipped round the ear by some brother or knight-lieutenant, but he can’t help himself.

And after he’s chased her off by asking her to clarify the rumours about this “undue influence” over him - if someone’s in Chantry robes there’s a good chance they’re a coward, and she’s not much different - his heart is sinking, even with Dorian’s brightness at being  _insulted_ and the attempts to laugh it off. He can see Dorian watching him and pretending not to. He wonders if he’s said too much, or showed it. The answer’s probably yes.

He takes a step towards the stairs, and Dorian says quietly, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the assumption in some corners is that we’re… intimate.” Dorian sounds nervous, almost pained.

No wonder, if they’re going to carry on like this. Half their friends want to know what’s happening and when it started. Even the messengers have been sniggering behind their hands. But this is  _Dorian_ \- he’s done more for the Inquisition than most can dream of, or Gal wouldn’t have stayed to chase away Giselle. Or felt like this.

Maybe he should care what they think. He doesn’t. He can’t when he’s sitting in the library talking bollocks about Orlesian history with Dorian listening patiently and offering suggestions, or when Dorian’s picking him up off the ground and checking him over, or when Dorian smiles at him. Nothing about this is  _wrong_.

He turns. “Is that such a bad assumption for them to have?”

Dorian cocks his head, and the unruffled noble mask slips. There’s surprise in his face under it all, and something else. “I don’t know. Is it?” Like he’s genuinely wondering.

Gal sighs. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?” There’s a smile creeping onto Dorian’s face as he draws closer, and the fear’s gone. He looks Gal up and down like it’s nothing, and then gives Gal that _look_  from under his lashes. Gal remembers it from that first day they were in Haven. Remembers his heart pounding in his chest and his throat going dry. (Because there were people calling him  _Herald_ and the sky was falling. No time, no time, but fuck, everything in him was thinking  _if only.)_

Gal knows a challenge when he hears one. Or an invitation. He can feel himself smiling, because he knows where this is going. He keeps his chin high as he says, “If you’re capable.”

It turns out he was wrong. He expected some wry mention of what’s between them, maybe an admission. Words and shields, or a joke.

He didn’t expect Dorian to kiss him.

* * *

 

 _Bad idea_ , Dorian thinks to himself.  _Very bad idea_. He should care, really, but the thought’s distant as he closes the space between them and presses his mouth to Gal’s. He keeps it gentle, offering rather than taking, but he feels the sharp inhale of surprise, the way Gal tenses. He wonders if he’s made a miscalculation -

Then the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, a man who should by no means be kissing back… kisses back.

Gal leans into him and responds, taking a breath and then fitting their mouths together more firmly, and what started as a question becomes a certain,  _ **Yes.**_  He half-expected a claiming thing, a rush forward or more of that fearlessness Gal shows on the battlefield. He didn’t expect a slow slide, testing and… patient, that nearly takes the knees out from under him. That was always his job: making them want more, making sure they couldn’t forget even if they wanted to.

They separate a trifle unsteadily, in Gal’s case, and Gal murmurs something that sounds like, “Oh.”

As if even he’s surprised, when this is his fault, after all. As if the months of questions and teasing and all the nearly-saids haven’t been this; as if every moment since that bloody Redcliffe Chantry hasn’t been this.  _T_ _his_ that Dorian’s spent nearly every dark, solitary moment trying not to imagine since he sat in Gal’s tent and tucked a cloak around the not-yet-conscious not-yet-Inquisitor, the man who shouldn’t have lived but had. The strangest of miracles, perhaps, and yet this feels even more unlikely.

 _Oh_ indeed.

There’s a flush in Gal’s cheeks beneath the lines of ink, and his eyes are dark. For a moment they simply stare at each other, trying to breathe.

Dorian wants nothing more than to drag him back and kiss him again. Doing it once wasn’t nearly enough. He’s not sure any number would be, but just once would be a tragedy, a waste of Inquisition resources. He waits for  _We shouldn’t have done that,_ or  _You just don’t understand the position I’m in,_ or -

And then Gal’s kissing him again. As if unable to bear the thought of letting this end, even for air. He feels a calloused hand touch his face, and Gal rubs a thumb over the line of his jaw, slowly lifts his chin to deepen the kiss. That slow tenderness is so good that it’s almost frightening. Gal kisses like a man who’s devoted years to it, and been a very,  _very_ good student. Like someone who’s savouring it, savouring  _him_. He’s halfway between wanting this to go on forever and abandoning all dignity to ask if he can drag Gal to his quarters.

They wouldn’t understand.  _You’d let some_ soporati  _brute paw at you?_ they’d say back home, and he doesn’t know how to explain that he never expected this and he’d never considered…

He doesn’t expect the touch of Gal’s other hand at his waist, still a little hesitant. Neither does he expect to take that hand and press it there, firmly, pointedly, ignoring the hum of the Mark. He feels Gal smile – quick and surprised, like a man disbelieving of his own luck- and that’s what does it.

He steps forwards and slides an arm round Gal’s waist to ease him closer, and the fearsome Inquisitor, slayer of red templars and demons, goes gladly, touching a kiss to the corner of his mouth, nose brushing his. Just for a moment, he lets himself forget the library and the Inquisition and the end of the world. He tries not to grin at the scrape of stubble, finally tastes that line of ink on Gal’s lower lip that’s threatened to drive him mad, fits himself against that broad warrior’s body, and lets himself answer Gal’s question.

Maker, it feels even better than he hoped.

* * *

 

Gal makes himself step back to breathe, and Dorian beams at him.

Dorian’s dark-eyed and flushed, though he’s hiding it well. Must be a Tevinter Game thing; other than after fights, it’s the least guarded Gal’s ever seen him. Gal remembers spending years learning this: how to touch someone and say  _I want you._ So much easier than words, sometimes. Good to know he hasn’t lost it, especially when it’s someone he  _does_ want. Very much.

Dorian scoffs, and Gal wonders if it’s to cover the breathlessness. “’If you’re capable.’ The nonsense you speak.”

Gal can’t stop himself. “You do realise this makes the rumours somewhat true?” He knows he has to be grinning like an idiot.

Dorian laughs, still with his hand trailing across Gal’s arm, and looks away, bows his head slightly like he’s surprised by the honesty of the sound. Gal could look at him like this forever. Then Dorian steps back, putting room between them and looking over his shoulder. Gal looks too: there are only a couple of apprentices in the library, far enough away that they probably didn’t see anything.

“Evidently,” Dorian says, voice low. He gives Gal a look worthy of a desire demon and says, “We’ll have to explore the full extent of those rumours later. In private.”

And part of Gal wants to say  _My quarters are just across the way and I could do with some company,_ but the saner part of him is content. “Couldn’t agree more.” He heads past Dorian, their shoulders brushing, and to the stairs. He’s a couple of steps down when he looks back, just once.

Dorian’s browsing a bookshelf, but there’s still a smile on his face. It’s small, secret, different from the one he wears when he’s expecting an audience.

Gal tries to look stern and like a decent Inquisitor on the way downstairs, but Solas blinks at him in surprise when he walks past. He probably looks Fade-touched instead. He couldn’t care less.

Inquisitor Trevelyan has paperwork to do and drills to help prepare. Gal is practically skipping there.


	13. Attachment

They’re trudging their way through the Storm Coast, and of course, this being the _Storm_ Coast, the skies have opened and rain is pissing down relentlessly. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; one of the first things he noticed about the South was its ever-present dampness.

Gal’s boots are squelching with every step, his war paint is more of a grey smear all over his face, and strands of his hair are plastered to his forehead. It would almost be hilarious, but Dorian’s sure he himself is in just as much of a state. 

Generally he might expend a little mana on a minor barrier, just something to keep the cold away. He does for a while, but then he finds himself distracted. He spends half a mile trying not to remember the soft look of surprise Gal had given him; and then lips against his, and those big, gentle hands on his hips, pulling him closer. He utterly fails, of course, even when he attempts to recall Alexius’ entire first experiment from memory, and the seven humours (they teach them differently here, in a way which seems utter nonsense), and the vintage of the last wine he liberated from the Skyhold cellar. Oh, he manages to bring them to mind - his brain is a little more complex than that, thank you very much - but beneath them there’s always an inconvenient current of thought. A sense-memory he won’t quite let in. His mouth tingles.

Perhaps it was a mistake, and the mighty Inquisitor’s mind has changed. It was certainly impulsive - in some quarters it would have been political suicide.

But he can sense eyes upon him. He glances to his side and Gal seems to be watching the cliffs, quiet and thoughtful, possibly looking for oculara.

Dorian has his doubts. He knows this feeling. He remembers it from those first few days in Haven; from training and sensing company a little too late, and turning to see the Herald watching him with evident admiration, bright-eyed and barely able to hide it. It was the first moment he’d had an inkling that perhaps, just perhaps, his mild fascination with this odd Herald was mutual.

Gal happens to look at him, and then smiles. “At least it’s not the Mire?”

There are mutters of agreement around them. Sera sticks her tongue out exaggeratedly, and Cassandra says something under her breath, probably disgruntled and the sort of acerbic she’ll deny later.

Dorian sighs. “Do you know what I thought when we were trapped in the Fade?”

Gal raises an eyebrow. ‘“This is a nightmare and where did all these spiders come from’?”

“That too. But no, mostly I thought, ‘At least there isn’t any mud.’”

Gal looks as if he’s trying not to laugh. “Because it’s not like the gigantic demon and the dead Divine mattered.”

“I was rather distracted by attempting to live through it all, if I recall. My priorities may have been somewhat skewed. But the company could have been worse, at least.”

He gets a true smile for his trouble, all eye crinkles with a hint of bashfulness. It’s the sort he’d really like to taste, but they aren’t exactly in private.

A few minutes later, when it’s been deduced that they’re all exhausted and the rain isn’t abating any time soon, they make camp. He’s laying wards around the perimeter, partly protection and spells that will alert them to intruders, and partly charms for warmth and dryness. The others drift away, wandering off to gather supplies: firewood, meat and possibly something to keep the damn rain off.

That just leaves him and Gal, who hesitates, swallows, pretending not to look at him. The air between them is thick with uncertainty and a strange sort of… hope. Yes, that’s what it is.

He wonders if he’s making a mistake; why he’s suddenly become brave, or foolish. Perhaps it’s that he’s somewhere so different, with someone so different. Still, as Gal is making to leave and probably go off in search of something to kill, Dorian touches his arm. Gently, but firmly enough to be noticeable. Gal turns, questioning, and Dorian reaches across to lay a hand on his cheek. It’s a question as much as anything else. Gal’s face softens with understanding and something altogether gentler, and that does it. Dorian’s leaning forwards and kissing him, sense and propriety be damned.

Gal makes a low noise and responds. He tastes like rain, and his skin’s still damp, but he’s warm; he’s always warm. When Dorian touches that long, sopping wet hair, his hands come away soaked. He should care, really. He certainly shouldn’t press closer, running his hands along the arms that have wrapped around his waist, breathing Gal in. Some ridiculous part of his brain thinks that Gal tastes like fresh air, mountains, trees, wide open spaces; like the places he drags them all into.

He’s sure that some would laugh at him: the altus who might have been Archon, kissing a barbarian in the middle of a forest so soaked it’s rapidly becoming a swamp. How very Southern. He doesn’t much care.

When he draws back, Gal beams at him like someone who’s received a gift. It’s dreadful: wide and bright, and Maker forbid, there are dimples. Smudged and soaked the man may be, but Dorian remembers again why he took a second look in a demon-infested Chantry. “I’ll just… Firewood,” Gal says.

Dorian doesn’t realise he’s taken Gal’s hand until Gal walks backwards, seeming hesitant to let it go, and releases it with a gentle brush of his fingers.

Gal turns to go off and chop trees or something equally brutish. Dorian carefully doesn’t watch him go.

* * *

 Gal’s sitting in the library, squinting at one of Gaius’ texts, scribbling questions to answer later and trying to work out whether a piece of Arcanum translates to “room” or “land” - he’s slightly rusty and it’s a strange form, perhaps an older version of the language - when there’s a gentle knock on stone. He looks over his shoulder, and Josephine’s standing, waiting. She smiles at him, and it’s soft. “Inquisitor. There are some matters requiring your attention.”

With a sigh, he puts aside his notes. The scrape of the chair is loud in the silence, and it makes him wince. “Are these ‘solved in two minutes’ matters, or ‘locked in a meeting for an afternoon’ matters?”

“Somewhere in between.” Seeing his wariness, she says gently, “Galahad…”

The name gets a wince from him - it always will - but he represses it and manages to smile at her. “I’m coming.”

He leaves with her, and as they’re walking along the silent corridor, she looks at him from the corner of her eye. “So, I hear rumours that you have been seen in the library often. The one above, not below.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I read.” When she looks sceptical, he adds, “I read a lot.”

The scepticism on her face doesn’t fade, but she looks back to her writings and says, “I’m just glad, if you are happy.”

“I think I am,” he says, without meaning to.

When he returns to his makeshift desk, he sees that his notes have shifted a couple of inches, and there are additions in a neat, slanting hand he can’t help recognising. _It is, roughly, “homestead” - but the confusion is understandable._ Another quickly-scribbled note, left next to it: _I have some theories on a Venatori faction in Vyrantium. See me, if you have a moment?_

* * *

 Two kisses turn into three, then four, then five, and then more, Dorian notices. Gal steals them quietly, in private moments on journeys or when the library is deserted. It’s often not even necking in corners; it’s small things. Once, when Gal needs to leave after an illuminating conversation on Tevinter history in southern Chantries, he presses a quick kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth and wanders off to whatever Inquisitorial business he’s being pestered with, grinning. Dorian thinks his surprise is rather well-hidden, all things considered.

And then there’s the time Dorian mutters something offhand about _Genson’s Companion_ , and whatever it is has Gal laughing - not the usual quiet thing, but one that makes him slump in his chair, resting a hand over his mouth to keep it in. It’s an unusual sight, a memory worth tucking away. It sets Dorian off, too, and he’s having to restrain his own amusement, chuckling under his breath. Gal looks at him, laughter fading to a smile, then - there is no better word for it - _pounces_ and they’re kissing. The technique is terrible, they’re both laughing too much, but he can’t quite bring himself to mind.

Dorian would tease Gal about this minor obsession with his mouth, but he suspects it would lead down decidedly unchaste avenues - ones he isn’t quite ready to explore yet. Copping a feel of the Inquisitor’s arse is rather different from inviting him to one’s bed. (It is _excellent_. And as much as Sera likes to tease, it doesn’t glow.)

But it’s not just the kissing; it’s the moments after. It’s the way Gal hesitates, still wrapped around him, muttering something under his breath about should he return, and yes, of course he should, Dorian isn’t exactly protesting. It’s the gentle touch on his arm or his shoulder, the flash of a smile as Gal walks to some other appointment. It’s the way that their conversations on ridiculousness such as Tevinter mosaics continue, amicable and meandering as they were in Haven, but then Gal will let their fingers brush not-quite-accidentally on pages and give him that bloody _smile_ , all half-lidded eyes and softness. Hiding nothing. It’s the fact that he allows it, even welcomes it.

It’s still new to him, all this. He’ll find himself looking around once again to check they haven’t been seen, even though he’ll have done that before getting anywhere near Gal. It’s not that he hasn’t done these things before; it’s the calm matter-of-factness of it. All this casualness, this affection - it reminds him again that he’s not at home, where this sort of thing was best hidden behind convenient pillars or in back rooms, or better still, not done at all.

This? This is something else entirely. He’s not sure what to make of it. Perhaps this is one more thing that can be different, here in the South.

* * *

 It’s late, and Gal’s managed to find one of the few quiet spots in Skyhold - under the tree, in the gardens. He’s halfway through meditation, Transfigurations in his head and a low, almost inaudible hum on his lips, when he hears a rustle. A boot scuffs on the ground. The clink of buckles. Leather against leather.

He opens his eyes and sees Dorian sitting next to him, watching him with a raised eyebrow and a look of mild curiosity. “Tell me, do you always do this half-naked?”

He looks down at himself, suddenly aware of his shirtlessness. The pink flush in his cheeks is visibly getting to his chest. Fuck. “Usually,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual. He reaches for his tunic. “There’s rarely company.”

Dorian seems unruffled. He just rests his chin on his hand, looking at Gal with calm interest. “Oh, believe me, I wasn’t complaining. It’s just that I don’t recall you doing that in Haven.”

Gal can’t help his surprise. He says as he puts his tunic back on, “Haven was freezing. And I don’t recall you watching me.”

“Mm. You wouldn’t. You looked to be asleep half the time.”

“I was focusing.”

Dorian gives him an amused look, then keeps contemplating the garden. “Focusing always happened early in the morning. And it seemed to require rather a lot of drool.”

Gal touches the corner of his mouth absentmindedly, embarrassment rising in him…

Until Dorian grins at him wickedly, the kind that says _I’m pulling the great Herald’s leg._ Then he exhales and leans back against the tree, his hands on his knees. “Besides, it didn’t happen often. I was generally on my way somewhere.”

Gal mumbles something under his breath. Even he’s not sure what it is. He thinks it has the words “bloody,” “stealthy” and “mage spy,” but everything else is a haze of awkwardness.

Dorian just laughs softly in the quiet of the garden. “Why, yes. I am the evil fiend from Tevinter, after all.”

Gal glares at him, then looks away, wondering if there’s still gossip. If Dorian’s been hearing something that’s brought this back. “You’re not evil,” he says quietly, looking at the elfroot plants. “Or if you’re trying, you’re not good at it.”

Dorian snorts. “Is this like… let me remember… how I’m ‘not pointy’?”

Gal puts his head in his hands. “I was drunk.”

That laugh again. “You were _fantastic_. And it wasn’t my imagination, was it?” When Gal looks at him, he continues, “You were flirting with me.”

Gal assumes his best “Inquisitor” expression. He can keep a straight face, even if it’s more of an effort around Dorian. That should’ve been the first sign.“I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.”

Dorian hmphs. “Tell Josephine she needs to give you a few more lessons.”

Gal sighs. “Of course I was. You were…” Inhaling, he says, “I was trying to meditate.”

Dorian shifts closer. “Yes, that was what I meant to ask. All this constant, sweaty focusing - is this a templar thing?”

“It’s a Chantry thing,” Gal says.

By the time he’s explained, often interrupted by questions and exclamations and half-muttered theories, the sky is pitch-black. He climbs to his feet, yawning. (He always manages to lose track of time with Dorian. It’s like Haven again.) His joints click as he stretches.

He feels a gentle hand on his back, and Dorian says into his ear, “Here.” There’s a quiet half-whisper of magic, and he feels some sort of rejuvenation spell seep into his bones. His eyes close at the sensation, and he knows he probably looks ridiculous.

But when he opens his eyes, Dorian is still watching him, and the hand on his back lingers. There’s something in the mage’s expression… A softness, a warmth. Gal’s seen it before, in the few men who didn’t want a one-night-stand or five minutes of scandalous company with “the odd Trevelyan boy.” He knows he must look like that, too. It has to be painfully obvious in his eyes. He knows what this is - or at least, he thinks he does. (He remembers his thoughts in Haven. _So much easier when it was just about a pretty face. But it’s always been more than that. Maybe since Redcliffe_.)

Dorian smiles at him and says, “Good for long nights of study.”

He can imagine it: Dorian frowning at books long into the night, probably getting a cricked neck. “Thank you.”

Dorian nods in acknowledgement. “You should probably get some rest. I was just waiting for the drooling.” And before he can get glared at, he’s leaning to brush a kiss against Gal’s lips - quick and gentle, and Gal blinks at the tickle of his moustache. “I’m impressed at the lack of it,” he adds, as he saunters off.

Gal tries not to stare after him.

* * *

The candles are nearly burned to stubs, and he knows he should retire soon. Still Dorian turns the amulet over in his hands, watching the way it glints and reflects the glow of the flames. He doesn’t know why he accepted it; in truth, he doesn’t know why he’d planned to find it again. It probably shouldn’t have mattered. He half-moves to throw it aside, but his hand halts without his mind’s approval. He finds himself putting it on, tucking it under his shirt.

He sighs faintly. Attachment is so terribly unbecoming of a Tevinter. But then, he’s never been a particularly good Tevinter.

 


	14. Truths

The wind here is freezing. It creeps under Dorian’s robes and bites at his skin until he’s trying not to shiver. It’s not usually this bad, but next to the sea, it’s worse.

He remembers going on rare family jaunts, and sometimes travelling on his own, but those times were different: dipping one’s toes into clear blue water, pleasantly warm, wasn’t exactly a hardship. He remembers sand running through his fingers, such a bright gold it was almost white, and the haze of heat and sunshine. His mother cooling wine with spelled, icy palms. His father complaining about gritty robes and shaking out blankets rather than leaving servants to do it. Not having to be bundled up in too many layers, the sun on his skin.

He suddenly misses home so fiercely that it nearly rattles his teeth. It’s an ache in his chest, and he lowers his head against the cutting sea breeze. If it means no-one can see his face, well, he’s not complaining. Most of the time he spends here is an adventure - fascinating, always yielding some new quirk to laugh at or be intrigued by - but there are days. Anyone would grow tired of their name apparently being “the Tevinter,” or their soup being spat in, or their old friends seeming to die at a rate of knots. Most days are not _those_ days, but sometimes, beside the wrong sea and with the cold in his bones, they are.

Yes, he’s aware all this whining is tedious, but a little self-pity is good for the soul, he’s always thought.

An hour or two later, exhausted and muddied and still taking the route by the bloody sea, they tramp up a hill and stop to make camp, and the tents are set up. Afterwards, Gal hesitates at the edge of camp, looking out towards the sea. “I think I’m going for a walk.”

He wonders whether to stay here, but Gal could probably do with some backup in case things go wrong. And this is the Storm Coast; things _always_ go wrong, sooner or later. “You look like you could do with some company.”

Gal turns and smiles at him. “I could.”

Sera sniggers and mutters something about exactly what sort of “company” he means, and Cassandra grunts disapprovingly, but he just joins Gal, making sure to saunter. Then the two of them are climbing down the hill, and onto what only desperate and maybe blind men would call a beach.

“Thought you weren’t too keen on the sea,” Gal says, after a while.

Dorian sighs, glancing out over the water. “Sea journeys, perhaps. And I’m keen on you not getting yourself killed by being ambushed on some solitary jaunt.”

Gal raises an eyebrow. “I can handle myself, you know.”

 _I know. It doesn’t stop me worrying._ But that would be too truthful, and dangerous, and Dorian can’t help himself; he raises an eyebrow of his own and responds, “Oh, I’m sure you can. But I’m always here to assist.” The lascivious tone is entirely intentional.

Gal’s jaw tenses as he tries not to smile, and he looks over to the sea. Anybody else would be rolling their eyes. Then he returns his eyes to Dorian, and his smile is subtle, but it’s the equivalent of a broad, smug grin on any other man. “So what you’re saying is, you’re keen on _me_.”

 _Yes. Probably too keen_. “Somewhat. You’d know if I was growing bored.”

Gal makes a swift detour, changing direction until he’s sitting on a large rock, close enough that give it a couple of feet and his toes would be in the water. Dorian, foolish as he is, takes a seat next to him. These are only his second-best robes, anyway.

Gal just watches the waves for a time, hair blowing slightly in the breeze, looking terribly like something off the cover of one of Varric’s novels. Eventually he says, “The years I was in Ostwick, I used to go down to the water a lot. It was…” He looks to Dorian, hesitating. “It was coastal, and you could catch fish… The sea always makes me think of home.”

It might be that he doesn’t have to look at Gal - that he can make the excuse of admiring the ocean - but Dorian admits, “It’s not just you. But with me, it makes me think of how far away home is.” When he looks back, Gal’s eyes are downcast, black paint smudged around his eyelids, his face quizzical underneath all the flyaway hair. Dorian follows Gal’s gaze and realises that it’s directed at his hands. He realises he’s been adjusting his gauntlets, the staff-bracers on his forearms. Fidgeting like a child; his mother would be berating him.

Gal at last meets his eyes, looking at him with the earnest face he’s come to dread, because it always ends up dragging the truth out of him somehow. “You miss it.”

There’s little point in lying. “Yes. And in some ways, no. But I couldn’t have stayed. Not with what was happening here. Besides, the things I’ve found here… There’s so much I’d never have thought to expect.” He feels the words on the tip of his tongue. Stops, pulls himself back before he crosses a line. “Trudging around freezing swamps, setting people on fire and eating gruel? Oh, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”  

Gal is watching him, face soft and wistful with the hint of a smile - much the same way he watches the sea. “I’m glad you came. And I’m… I’m glad you stayed.”

“Of course I stayed. There was a world to save.”

Gal nods. “The Free Marches are warmer. You could swim in the sea there. I used to.”

This is safer territory. “Please tell me there are tales of skinny-dipping.”

Gal grins, bashful and slightly mischievous, running a hand over his mouth. “Maybe a few.”

Dorian leans an elbow on his knee and assumes his best “idle curiosity” face. “Do continue.”

And that’s how he’s regaled with the tale of one exceptionally foolish dare, a scandalised chambermaid, and how Gal narrowly avoided getting gravel in highly inadvisable places.

* * *

 

Things can’t remain simple forever, of course. The next day, they’re heading to a cave, directed there by a mysterious map, when there’s a stirring, a sound, and the air changes. It’s a half-song, muffled and wrong, and he sighs. “We have company.”

Gal gives him a nod and a brief half-smile in thanks, and says, “Bit of a shit ambush.”

That it is. Half of their little party can sense the lyrium, for one reason or another. By the time the red templars have appeared from behind a hill, they all have their weapons to hand, have prepared shields and barriers, and are practically yawning.

Which is why it’s such a surprise when one of them manages to catch him off-guard. Or perhaps it isn’t - perhaps he’d grown too lazy.

The silencing is a sudden thing, and it almost knocks him backwards. It’s brutal, nothing like the brief glimpses Gal has given him of what Chantry training can do. He stumbles at the sudden lack of mana, catching himself with his staff; he feels dizzy and light-headed, as if he’s leaning over a high cliff and about to fall. Cullen has spoken of this in the past, but it’s something else altogether to feel it.Another lovely southern quirk.

The red templar grins at him with a mouth full of red lyrium crystals, advancing.

“Well, aren’t you clever,” he mutters. His barrier’s still holding, even if it’s fading by the second, and he knows the effects of the silence won’t last long. He’s worked on no mana before, and there’s already a tingle in his fingertips that tells him it’s returning, and fast. All in all, it could be worse.

Which is, of course, when everything goes to the Void.

They’re a way from the others, but they’ve obviously attracted some attention. A second red templar grabs at him from behind, and he brings his staff blade down on its foot, half-expecting armour but having few other options. It connects.There’s an unpleasant but satisfyingly meaty noise, and the monster howls, its grip loosening.

It’s enough. He wrests himself from its grasp and backs away, looking between the two of them. One he could perhaps delay until the mana came back, but two? 

He reaches for his belt, but there isn’t a vial of lyrium to be found. He tries not to sigh. Excellent work, Pavus. Dying in a presumably gruesome and thoroughly underwhelming way due to a bit of absentmindedness. They’d been almost certain the fiends couldn’t silence on red lyrium, but they should have prepared for the worst. No, _he_ should have.

He knows when he’s pinned down. Still, he has to try.

He runs at the templar he’s done his best to hobble, and sees the other one move out of the corner of his eye. It’ll be on him in perhaps two seconds. He smashes the metallic end of his staff, focusing crystal and all - it can be repaired; he can’t - under the templar’s helmet. There’s an interesting sort of crunch, and the templar gasps, falling in a way that suggests it won’t get back up again. He turns and braces himself for the other templar, tensing -

And then Gal is ramming it, shield out and face twisted. Dorian hears a low “oof” as the blow connects, but the red templar staggers back, almost falling and seeming dazed.

Gal moves towards him, away from the templar, then looks at him and says, “My belt.”

It says everything that he doesn’t even muster a _Here? Now?,_  just looks. And then runs the last two steps, unclipping the lyrium potion before swiftly getting out of the way. Gal runs at the templar once more, sword raised and a yell of fury on his lips. He can almost see why someone would find the man frightening.

He puts that thought aside, hastily uncorking the vial and necking the potion. It tastes like the wrong end of a dwarven ale barrel, but he feels his mana surge, and if there wasn’t a fight going on around him, he might be tempted to close his eyes in bliss. As it is, he sighs and rearranges his hands on his staff. And then sees what’s happening.

Gal is tiring, it’s obvious in the set of his shoulders and the look on his face, and the templar is raising its sword to deliver a blow he won’t anticipate -

_Fasta vass._

Dorian casts, white-knuckled and with a shout. A barrier springs to life around Gal, who’s only staggered by the blow rather than crippled. Dorian calls fire to mind, immolating the templar for good measure. It screams, armour melting, and Gal runs it through with a grimace, only the barrier between him and a fiery death. His trust is rather touching, really.

They’re left slumped and panting in the silence. He tries not to think of what might have happened without the presence of one rather angry Inquisitor. He nods to Gal, attempting a grin, and says breathlessly, “Much appreciated.”

Gal puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles through blood. “I could say the same. Nice save.”

They end up exhausted and trailing behind the others the rest of the way, bumping shoulders occasionally and smiling at each other. It should all make him want to throw up. Somehow, it doesn’t.

* * *

A day or two after they return to Skyhold, they’re sitting on a wall next to the all but deserted training grounds. Dorian has spent far too long trying to teach Gal a few Tevene curses, after being asked with disarmingly cheerful curiosity how he would “tell a Venatori I’m going to use his scrotum as a potions pouch.”

“That’s… oddly specific.”

Gal simply shrugged. “Sera suggested saying it. I’m just wondering if the construction’s possible.”

Of course, he’d then wandered off on some tangent, saying that it would depend if said Venatori even knew enough Tevene to understand him, though as half of them seemed to be stuck-up magisters’ sons, they’d probably know some for status’ sake -

At which point Gal grinned, looked at him askance and said, “Sounds familiar.”

“I’m wounded. Less of the lip, if I’m to teach you anything.”

And they’ve whiled away some time here, watching the sun begin to set and discussing various unethical uses of Venatori cadavers, and of language. There’s something marvellous about reducing the fearsome Inquisitor to proper, stomach-clutching laughter, and Gal has a fine, wry laugh. Dorian only wishes he could hear it more.

Noting the sun’s position in the sky, he says eventually, “Won’t the rest of your many followers be wondering where you are?”

Gal smiles and shakes his head. “I had an hour free. I thought I’d use it wisely.”

It’s… strangely touching, that thought. That their resident Herald would put aside time simply for this. Or for him, though he doesn’t countenance that idea for long. “You have a strange definition of ‘wise.’”

Gal shrugs, not losing his smile. “Being with you isn’t wasting time.”

Dorian tries not to look too surprised at how simply it’s said, and wonders why his heart is somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. He tries for cheer of his own. “Many would disagree. Of course, they have rather dubious taste.”

Sighing, Gal says, “And I wonder who ‘they’ are.” After a moment, he looks at Dorian. “I’m probably going to run out of excuses. You know, we could just tell them. At least half know already.”

Well, yes. They are in a fortress full of spies and various experts. Leliana often gives him smug smiles when she passes him on the way down from the rookery, especially if Gal’s visited recently. And Cullen has, if anything, been even worse than usual during their chess matches.

He sighs. “We could. But as you say, the others will figure it out in their own time. We aren’t exactly subtle.” The idea of sneaking about in back rooms doesn’t appeal - he did enough of that in Tevinter - but having his private affairs dragged into the light is something he’s far too used to; it’s been nice to be the subject of, if not less gossip, _different_ gossip. Then there’s the other worry, too. He tries to laugh as he adds, “And anyway, do you really want half the fortress knowing about your involvement with the Tevinter spy?” He looks at the setting sun, unsure if he wants to hear the answer, trying to find some convenient escape route.

He feels Gal stand in front of him and take his hands, and then Gal says quietly, “I might be ashamed of a Tevinter spy. I’m proud to be seen with Dorian Pavus.”

He considers speaking - _Well, you’d be the first_ \- but instead forgoes it in favour of a better option. Gal looks rather surprised when Dorian pulls him across and kisses him. Gal’s hands flail until they land on the wall to steady himself. Dorian doesn’t even pause, holding him closer and wondering why this feels so much like _thank you_.

* * *

The way Gal kisses is so very unlike the way he fights; it’s slow, gentle, inexorable, and all Dorian can do is hope to keep up. Gal kisses as if he’s savouring every moment of it. Everything is _yes_ and _more_ and _please_ ; Dorian has to match such intensity or be swept away by it. He closes his eyes, running his hand up Gal’s back, anchoring himself, feeling arms settle around him. Gal’s excellent to hold - broad, and strong, and warm. Better than he imagined.

 _See me tonight?_ Gal had said, looking at him hopefully. They’ve been working all day, they’ve barely seen each other, and Maker, even if it’s just been a matter of hours, he’s missed this.

They end up stumbling backwards until he’s landing on the ridiculously plush four-poster bed. He drags Gal down, too, kissing him fiercely, fingers curling in the fabric of that rough cotton shirt, long hair tickling his face.

He feels Gal laugh, only just hears it: a low thing that makes him shiver. “What?” he asks, playing at indignation.

Gal says simply, “Feels good.” He presses his nose into Dorian’s neck, and Dorian does his best to ignore the sharp jolt of _oh yes please_ that spikes in his stomach.

Then Gal’s mouth follows the same path, laying soft, open kisses, and Dorian’s struggling to think at all. He finds himself laughing breathlessly too, even if he isn’t entirely sure why. “That it does.”

He feels Gal smile. Gal noses at his chin before returning to his mouth, and then he’s being kissed mercilessly by a stubbly Southern barbarian. Perhaps he should protest. Instead he’s trying not to smile himself, so that he can do this properly. Gal’s hand runs along the outside of his thigh, over his side, and he waits - but it’s exploratory rather than possessive, staying on that line of not-quite-chaste.

He’s still half-waiting for Gal to push further, to take what he must want, surely. It’s simply to be expected; there has to be a climax - one way or another - to all this. But Gal seems content to simply kiss and tease. Dorian hasn’t done this much frustrated, cheerful necking since he was a teenager.

Then Gal’s pulling back to give him a sheepish grin, dishevelled and a little smudged around the edges. Gal stays there and raises a hand to touch his cheek, just _looking_ at him, and he can’t help saying, “What? Dazzled by how terribly handsome I am?”

“And everything else,” Gal mutters, already moving to kiss him.

However, his curiosity gets the better of him. He touches a hand to Gal’s chest and echoes, “Everything else?”

“You know.” And Gal takes his hand, kissing each of his fingers. “You’re witty. Kind. Brave. I’m not complaining.”

He tries not to stare at Gal dumbly. “Tell me, do you write these things in advance? The speeches must be excellent practice - “

“I try to have some initiative,” Gal says, and then winces, looking as if something’s occurred to him. Ah. This is a familiar expression. “Speaking of speeches…”

Dorian sighs. “Meeting, judgement, or interminable uphill trek in the middle of nowhere?”

Grimacing, Gal replies, “Meeting. I’d rather have the trek.”

“Then I shouldn’t keep you.”

Gal hesitates and then climbs off the bed, muttering something about finding some cold water, before he turns back. “Quarters are yours for as long as you want them, if you’ve not got anywhere else to be. I found volume four of Turnbull’s _Measures_ , I think it’s somewhere by my desk…” He exhales, running a hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian doesn’t know why he’s shifting and walking to stand next to him. Well, he does. It’s those big, sad blue eyes; you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who could resist them. “Such is the price of consorting with the most important man in Skyhold. _Go, amatus_.”

He’s not sure what made him say it. He’s been biting back the word, nervous. Too much, too fast, perhaps, but this isn’t exactly his area of expertise. He’s been wondering, and he’s seen the way Gal looks at him, touches him, talks to him - and somewhere along the way he must have decided that next time, it might not be so bitten back. Perhaps this is the same thing that’s stopped him simply getting this over with, offering himself to answer some sort of question, putting this bed to good use so he won’t have to _think_.

Gal blinks at him - wondering what it means, no doubt - and then smiles, presses one last kiss to his mouth. “Understood.”

Gal leaves, closing the door behind him, and Dorian watches him go, listening to those familiar footsteps fade. Then he swiftly makes off with the Turnbull and heads back to the library, the taste of _amatus_ still on his lips, wondering what in the world has possessed him.


	15. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful. What if he doesn’t want me after?”
> 
> “But he did.”

Dorian thinks something in him breaks. He doubts he’s being toyed with intentionally - he’s seen Gal’s reactions to deception and game-playing - but he’s always been one to ask for too much. It would be easier without all this foolish, inconvenient… hope. He’s had the pretty words before, even if they’ve never been from an odd barbarian with a sacred hand. He knows what comes afterwards. More than anything, he wants an answer.

It might be the newest tease, the latest of those quiet, lingering kisses, the hands not wandering as far as they could and the line never quite crossed. He knows patience, and he’s been telling himself to enjoy what he has, but this man appears to be driving him more than a little insane.

Or it might be the two of them wandering ahead of everyone else, trying to devise a strategy involving alternating barriers and shield work, getting into a cheerful argument that’s been a distraction from the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. You’d think the Approach would be a refreshing change from freezing swamps - and perhaps it would, if he wasn’t constantly fighting, and doing it in full battlemage vestments. He’s spent the past hour downing lyrium potions and stretching his shoulders, trying not to notice the soreness gathering just about everywhere. The temporary lack of Venatori morons is appreciated, however. It gives him a good chance to exercise his wit, too. He’s warming up for a good solid quip, saying, “Trust me - “

“You know I do,” Gal responds. Like it’s an easy, simple thing. And then, with one of those swift smiles: “But I still think we should focus on the dispells.”

Dorian is too well-trained to let the surprise show, a retort springing to his tongue, but it has him thinking.

Whatever it is, they return to Skyhold, and he lasts a day, two, before he realises that he’s grown tired of waiting. He knows that Gal will be in his quarters this afternoon; it was mentioned casually, while they were discussing whether enchantments on a shield were ever worthwhile, and Gal said it with the resigned half-smile of a man condemned to paperwork.

Dorian allows himself a few moments to consider the odds of success - frighteningly low, according to his estimates - and then makes his way there. He hesitates a moment, steels himself, and then steps through the last door.

As he suspected, Gal’s buried in reports, but looks up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

It’s easy enough to play this game; to allow the prowl into his step, to slip into being the source of every scandal in Qarinus. It’s a skin he hasn’t worn in a while. He’s missed it.

* * *

Dorian thought this was an old dance, one he knew. He’s used to quick fucks in back rooms and in wardrobes, hasty and with little time for tenderness, and though there have been a few exceptions, this… this is different.

Gal kisses him afterwards - slow, sweet, almost grateful - and draws back to offer him a grin. It’s graceless, and without all the kohl, tousled and flushed, the man doesn’t look much like the fearsome Inquisitor at all, but younger, kinder. More… human. Gal glances away, a strange shyness in the sweep of his lashes, the baring of his neck.

Dorian resists the urge to kiss that particular spot under Gal’s jaw, remembering the scrape of stubble and the sort of soft sound that should be illegal. He remembers closing his eyes to savour it.

Gal reaches up, and Dorian pretends to wince at the feeling of his hair being further ruined, wishing he minded more; he wants to pretend he has a scrap of pride left. Gal just laughs. “I’d wondered how you kept it like that. I thought nothing could budge it.”

“Force of will,” Dorian replies. “And concentration. Which is rather more difficult when someone’s trying to make you forget your own name.”

That soft, deep laugh again, the one that’s always sent a shiver down Dorian’s spine. He’s never heard it so rough. “I should be flattered, then.”

He looks at Gal, languid and really, truly _happy,_ and realises. He wants to see this again. He wants to wake up to this in the mornings. And that is what frightens him most of all.

He came here with simple enough intentions. To see if Gal would make good on all those teases, if the noble Inquisitor would fall into bed with the Tevinter. A test, to prove a hypothesis. A one-time thing, he thought - it would be reckless, stupid to think otherwise. It wasn’t as if a few flirtations and an amulet were any sort of promise. He was unsurprised when Gal accepted; he certainly thought he’d read those signals correctly. But then Gal slowed down, touching him with surprisingly gentle hands, looking at him with such open affection…

And here they are, and he’s not being shooed towards the door or turned away from. Gal is watching him thoughtfully but not unhappily, as if to see what he’ll do, a hand touching his face - and that gentleness, again, is what does it.

Dorian finds himself moving away to stand, to speak of trivial things, because there’s a feeling rising in his chest, something that might be panic and might be… something else. Something it’s unwise to allow. And while he’s commenting on the draperies, Gal is watching him with that steady, questioning gaze.

Dorian waits for the laughter, or the disapproval, or to be told that this was enjoyable but it’s now most certainly time to leave. Instead Gal says, “You seem… distracted.”

And he finds himself returning to that bed, with the rumpled sheets and the rumpled Gal, who is still watching him patiently. After the quips and the avoidance, he tells the truth. That this was fun - and honestly, that doesn’t quite cover it; he hasn’t had an encounter like that since about 9:37 Dragon, it’s always the quiet ones - but he doesn’t know what comes next. They could draw a line under it, he could leave…

He was half-certain he’d be quietly but firmly escorted from the Inquisitor’s quarters and it would be all awkward shunning - awkward shunning he knows what to do with. But there’s been the mess with his father, and the amulet, and the way Gal _looks_ at him, and… he wonders.

He knows he’s running in circles around the point, but Gal prompts him with, “Is that what you want?”

“All on me, then.”

Gal raises an eyebrow. “Why, should it be all on me?”

A fair point. And Dorian doesn’t know why, but his heart is in his throat as he says, “I… like you.” Inelegant, inarticulate, like the fifteen-year-old at a party who lost his nerve speaking to a magister’s son. “More than I probably should. More than is wise.”

He’s a fool, always has been; too much damn _hope,_ that’s what’ll end up killing him. He knows what was going through his head when he was in the Inquisitor’s - in _Gal’s -_ bed, and he curses himself for it. He remembers refusals in those back rooms, remembers being shoved out of doors. He remembers the laughter, the “What are you looking for, some sort of _relationship?”_ He remembers having to laugh, too, pretending the wine hadn’t lost its taste. That was almost worse.

This is going to hurt, but he has to try. He needs an answer.

He steels himself as he speaks, but Gal isn’t turning away - just watching him with that gentle expression, and the hint of a smile. When the silence falls again, Gal says, “I want more than just fun, Dorian. I want to be with you.”

This… this he hadn’t accounted for. At first he thinks he must have misheard; he’s probably blinking like a fool. Half of him is certain that there must have been some sort of mistake, that Gal can’t know what he’s asking for. He looks for some witty response or decent retort - _something_ \- and finds none. Frighteningly, the only thing that springs to mind is the truth.

Gal looks surprised and a little like he’s trying not to laugh, but there’s no cruelty in it. “Speechless, I see.”

Dorian tries again to find the words. He tries to explain that in Tevinter, sex is simple enough, but anything else… He’s saying _It would be foolish to hope for more_ even as he berates himself for being exactly that sort of fool; for taking Gal’s hand in not-quite-empty rooms and calling him _amatus_ and not just leaving now the deed’s done. He knows when he’s falling, no matter what he might say.

Gal smiles at him, and it’s frighteningly tender. “This _is_ more. Right here.”

…Oh. He’d wondered, what with the things Gal had said, but half of him had still wondered if those were just pleasant falsehoods to attain a decent lay. He realises that even with the positively glacial pace, and the open kisses, and the hours spent talking rather than desecrating the Inquisition’s furniture in new and interesting ways, some part of him was still convinced that this would be it. That afterwards, all of this would be over. And yet he still pursued it, because perhaps a few moments to lie to himself, a taste of what he couldn’t have, would be enough. At least he could tell himself that he’d had some element of control; he’d attempted the seduction, and he’d walked away, even if it was at another’s behest. It’s not the first time he’s done it.

But here he is, and Gal’s offering him something he’d thought impossible.

Dorian feels the smile on his face and the truths gathering on his tongue. It’s that which spurs his mind back into action, has him joking and returning them to more even ground: innuendo and propositions.

He tells himself that sex is easier than talking; that it’s not because he wants to kiss and touch and, most importantly, stay here, precisely here, with a decent fire in the grate and the rare sight of Gal laughing, all bright eyes and stubble. (Less rare these days, perhaps. This happy sort of Gal seems to happen a lot around him, or so he’s told.) For a while, few words are said. Few important ones, anyway.

He’s staring at the ceiling, stifling a yawn and trying to recover his wits in the afterglow - with limited success, and he ought to start seeing if he can recover his trousers, too, that would be a good start - when he finds himself saying, “I should probably be impressed. With myself, I mean, for bedding the dread Inquisitor.”

“It was fairly impressive,” Gal says, with an audible grin. “Don’t think I could live with myself if that was a one-off.”

Dorian can’t help laughing. It might be the quip, or it might be the clear implication. “Technically it was twice, if I recall.” He rolls over and runs a hand along Gal’s arm, resisting the urge to trace old scars. It’s been too long since he’s had the time to simply touch, without intent or thought. “Don’t get me wrong, you weren’t bad either.”

Gal raises a brow. “I try.”

He should really be going, he knows, but all this lounging about is comfortable, somehow. Everything is… slow; there’s no urgency. Part of him wants to memorise Gal, tousled and gentle and wanting _more._ He says, “You don’t have a judgement or something, do you? There might be a scandal if the Herald discusses the fate of Orlais with sex hair.”

Rather than receiving a glare for his trouble, he just gets that low, husky laugh. “You haven’t seen yours. And no, I’ve got nothing tonight.” Gal shifts to look at him, post-coital lassitude replaced by worry. “Why, do you have something - “

“No, nothing. But then, I’m not the Herald of Andraste. I just bother the mages occasionally. It’s normally only you making demands on my time.”

“I can stop, if you like.”

“Nonsense. Who would I discuss _Foundations of Thaumaturgical Meaning_ with?” His thoughts are running in circles. It should probably bother him that something can slow his mind down; instead he’s always found it refreshing. This way there’s less ticking.

Gal pretends to think it through, though a grin is creeping onto his face. “Carolus?”

“He’s been dead for two hundred years. I can’t just go around raising my favourite authors on a lark. And stop trying to distract me. There was something I meant to say.”

Gal looks at him curiously. “I’d like to hear it.”

“You seem awfully certain of that.”

“It’s you. I like listening.”

“Evidently. Must be my razor wit. But… you know, I had a theory there would be more tattoos.”

With a half-laugh, Gal says, “Sorry to disappoint. I didn’t have much money when I was nineteen. And it was mainly my face I was bothered about.”

“Tell me more. This concept of having little money intrigues me.”

Gal snorts. “I remember you telling me about the journey here. You might know something of it.”

“Yes, yes, well. At least you didn’t sell your birthright.” Dorian sighs, looking at Gal, who’s watching him with such silent… fondness. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”

Gal just smiles. “You don’t have to.” The words are gentle - as is the hand that reaches out to touch Dorian’s side, rests there. Then wryness sneaks into Gal’s voice. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Dorian replies, a half-joke - but the silence settles after that, and he drifts. He’s loose-limbed and, for the first time in days, warm, with the quiet beginnings of what might be contentment at the back of his mind. He means to move, to find his clothes, but in the space between moments, he finds himself falling asleep instead.

* * *

He wakes to an empty bed, and berates himself. There are no disturbed papers or articles of clothing strewn about, either. Not the signs of a man who’ll be right back.

Stupid, to think this could be different. To think Gal could be different. He’d actually thought that perhaps this time - _No_. It isn’t wise to let his thoughts run away with him.

He winces at the morning light, which, even with curtains to provide some protection, seems to have a deep personal hatred for him. He allows himself a moment to breathe, to feel the certainty of disappointment settle over him like a shroud, and then moves, before he can’t.

He sits up, stretching and considering the day ahead. He shouldn’t have stayed. Now he’ll have to try and be at least somewhat subtle about sneaking out of the Inquisitor’s quarters with a hall full of hawk-eyed nobles barely a room away. And then there’s the inevitable prospect of running into Gal, of smiling and saying that he understands, we all say stupid things, promise things, in the heat of the moment…

Things are different now Gal has gasped against his mouth and pulled him closer, desperately, hands hot on his back. Now he knows that there are lines inked on Gal’s hipbone, curling waves almost as intricate as the facial tattoos - but the spot’s a little ticklish, and the fierce Inquisitor will burst into rich, raucous laughter if you get it just right. Now he’s murmured “ _amatus”_ more than once, only half-aware, kissing the word into that pale Marcher skin like a prayer, or a promise. (Never a word he thought he’d use about a Southerner who doesn’t even know its meaning, one of the _soporati_ ; never a word, in fact, he thought he’d use at all.)  Now Gal has looked at him with something like wonder.

Most of all, things are different now Gal has asked him to stay, looked him in the eye and promised him _more._ He should have known better than to be placated with honeyed words. He’s not sure that he can wear a smile and be his usual charming self after having a moment where he, foolishly, believed. He’s been out of the game too long.

In the daylight, he notices the dark marks on his skin from Gal’s mouth; and he remembers that he’d not just allowed but even encouraged them. Stupidity, in the heat of the moment, and _the moment_ has so much to apologise for.

 _Idiot boy,_ says a voice at the back of his mind that sounds frighteningly like his father’s, even if he knows his father would never have expressed it so baldly. _You’ll never learn. This is all you will ever be._

His hand brushes something next to him, and he pauses in his remonstrating. He picks it up and squints at it, realising that it’s a note. He blinks until his eyes cooperate and things come into focus. He recognises that neat, careful handwriting from notes on theories, half-written reports, slips of paper that come with books he’s asked for on Southern Chantry history.

_Morning meeting. I’m sorry I forgot to mention it. Leliana would have killed me if I hadn’t gone. See you later?_

_(Bedhead suits you. Would have stayed and appreciated it if not for Inquisition business. I’d like to see it again.)_

It turns out his bad mood is easily defeated. He doesn’t know why there’s a smile growing on his face, or why later, he pockets the note as he closes the door behind him. Well, that’s a lie. He has an idea. He puts on his best “there was an important meeting” face, walks casually out into the hall, and tries not to grin like an idiot.

* * *

He’s reading _The Imperium In Literature_ and fighting his boredom - the mages are out training with the troops, he can’t even hassle Fiona - when he hears steps on the stairs. He manages to tear his hardly rapt attention from Laurentius’ dullest work, and looks up.

The steps reach his alcove and pause as Gal looks in. Their eyes meet. Gal stands there, a hand on the shelves and the mid-morning light a halo, and gives him a bright smile, as if seeing him is an unexpected, delightful surprise.

It’s the sort of thing that would cause a scandal and speculation in court. It’s not exactly the action of a man about to make a rejection. And it makes Dorian’s heart skip a beat, much as he’d like to pretend otherwise. He says, striving for lightness, “Good morning. And you’re right, by the way.”

Gal’s already in leathers and chain, just about shaven and kohl firmly in place, every inch the Inquisitor. The man of last night remains only in his lightness of step, the soft look in his eyes. He takes a step forwards, another, his stride slow and purposeful, and raises a brow. “About?”

Dorian responds airily, putting the book aside and standing, “I wear bedhead exceptionally well. But then, I wear everything well.”

Gal grins. “True.”

They’re rather close. Dorian tries, “How was the meeting?”

Still seeming too cheerful for a man who’s been discussing Orlesian politics, Gal says, “Useful.” He puts a hand on Dorian’s waist. “But I’d rather have been doing this.”

Unable to help himself, Dorian opens his mouth to ask what activity, exactly, Gal would have preferred - but then he’s being kissed rather thoroughly, and sensible thought seems to have fled. He sinks into it, relief and something akin to joy a drumbeat in his chest. He’s probably smiling too much to be any good; he decides to rectify that. He pulls Gal closer, threading his fingers into that long, unbound hair, responding to tenderness with tenderness. It’s a lover’s kiss, half a promise and a half a declaration, the sort of indulgence he’s rarely allowed himself. When they part for air, he can’t help himself: he lingers, brushing one last kiss to tattooed lips before he steps away.

They breathe in the silence. Gal takes a moment to open his eyes, that soft smile creeping back onto his face, and he looks…

The thought enters Dorian’s head before he can stop it: Gal looks like a man in love.

He puts that aside for the moment - too frightening, and too tempting - and says, “Pleased as I am to be more scintillating than the war council, Thedas probably needed you.”

Gal replies, without hesitation, “If Thedas had seen you, it would have understood.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow, trying not to be warmed by the compliment. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Are you always this sentimental?”

Seeming utterly unashamed, Gal replies, “Only with you.” He pauses, looks out of the window, and winces as if he’s been hit by a sudden headache, or - more likely - something’s occurred to him. It’s the _I have something important and Inquisitorial to do_ face. He’s taken blows from red templars with more cheer. “I promised Cullen I’d do a training session with the troops and the mages. Counter-techniques…”

Dorian sighs. “And I’ll have to speak to the Grand Enchanter when she returns.”

They look at each other, resigned - and then a smile begins to creep onto Gal’s face. Dorian can feel himself responding in kind, until they’re both on the edge of laughter. It may be frustrated and slightly hysterical, but he’ll take what he can get.

Dorian adds, “If you’re going to say, ‘Can’t I just let the world burn and take you back to bed…’”

“Read my mind.”

Dorian tries not to consider the previous night’s events in too much detail, or his growing certainty that this man will be the death of him. “It must be blood magic. Were you always so corruptible?”

“I hid it better,” Gal says, with that quiet half-smile. It fades, something more hesitant taking its place. “Can I find you tonight?”

“I look forward to it,” Dorian replies, honestly.

Gal nods, leaving with obvious hesitation. 

Dorian wonders how many will notice the spring in the Inquisitor’s step. 


	16. the light of day

Dorian wakes wondering why he’s wrapped in an extra blanket - he’s been meaning to requisition one, they aren’t in the hotter months yet and the Plains can be cold - until he realises that said blanket is actually an astonishingly warm, asleep man. He doesn’t particularly mind. This far south, he’ll take any heat he can get. He absentmindedly examines one of the arms around his waist, plucks at Gal’s sleeve with half-conscious curiosity, and touches the hand that’s glowing slightly in the dim light.

He’s certain they started out with separate bedrolls, or at least _nominally_ separate ones. He wonders when the gap was closed, but considering it in any more detail would require proper thought, and for now he’s quite happy to enjoy the haze. He lies there, on the edge of sleep and thinking in circles, until he finds himself closing his eyes and savouring the feeling. It’s far too comfortable, and it shouldn’t be.

He extricates himself as gently as possible, shifting and rolling over. It’s an art, leaving without waking a bed partner, and really he should be finding his leathers and his gear. But he glances at Gal, and for some reason he lingers.

In the silence, he allows himself a moment without pretence. He finds himself watching Gal sleep and wondering how he found himself here with this strange southern Inquisitor - or this odd, quiet man with warm hands and such terrible bravery. In the early half-light, he allows the thoughts to creep in. Some part of him is still waiting for the turning away; waiting for the convenient, polite excuses and the moment it’s understood that he’s simply too much trouble to deal with, a minor stain on the Inquisitor’s reputation. That _Gal_ may want him but _the Herald of Andraste_ can’t afford such diversions. He wonders whether he’d be able to smile through it, or whether he’d try to fight it, to hold Gal to the sweet words and murmured promises.

He wonders how he became so thoroughly ensnared, and what he expects. Perhaps it’s been so long that he’s no longer sure what to do with a man who stays until the morning. Or a man who seems to want to declare this fragile entanglement to the world, who seems _proud_ of it. Of… him. He’s grown used to vain hope; the thought that it may not be in vain has an allure that frightens him.

He’ll never learn. He’ll get his heart broken, and he’ll have welcomed it.

Even with the tattoos and the day’s worth of stubble, there’s a softness to Gal’s face in sleep, and for a moment Dorian can’t understand how anyone could find this man fearsome. Gal’s brow creases, a frown growing on his face, as if he’s dogged by worries even in the Fade.

Before he can think better of it, Dorian reaches out a hand and brushes away the hair that’s fallen into Gal’s face, then touches that tattooed brow, attempts to smooth away the tension in it. He finds his fingers following those curious lines of ink, and he wonders how and when they were designed.

Gal’s eyes blink open, and he looks at Dorian in surprise.

Ah. Dorian freezes. “Can we pretend I have a little more dignity than this?” He attempts to take back his hand.

Gal only smiles and catches it. “I don’t know. Think I like the lack of it.”

Gal tugs on his hand, and Dorian finds himself being reeled in until he’s once again wrapped in scarred, strong arms, his hand placed firmly on Gal’s waist. He says sardonically, “You don’t have a morning meeting, do you?”

Gal laughs, low and husky. “Not this morning.”  

Dorian remembers the others having a bet on whether Gal could ever smile; troops speaking in nervous tones about the silent, frightening Herald and wondering whether Andraste had made a mistake. He finds that more than ever, he’s glad he ignored the lot of them and relied instead upon what he’d seen in a rift-torn Chantry.

“Oh?” he says, playing at lightness. “No soldiers deciding they need to have a look at the Herald of Andraste?”

“None.” Gal squints and says, voice rough with sleep, “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

He _hmph_ s. “I look like I spent yesterday trudging through a battlefield. Still, there’s no accounting for taste.” He runs his hand along Gal’s side, feeling the heat of skin underneath roughspun wool and wondering if all Marcher men are furnaces, and then raises it. He traces Gal’s cheekbone with his thumb and touches one of those damnable dimples.

Gal mumbles something that might be, “Still look like you.”

Dorian runs his palm over stubble that almost obscures some of the tattoos, gently turning Gal’s head and examining him. “And you need to shave, before you frighten the Orlesians. As do I, come to think of it.” They’ve been on the road too long. They’re beginning to lose all traces of civilisation.

Gal just grins. “What d’you think the tattoos are for?”

There’s a flapping of canvas, and they look to see if there’s been a sudden invasion of undead. Instead they hear, “Oi, you two - “ There’s a small silence, and then… “I bloody _knew_ it!” Sera cackles, bolting out of the tent.

Dorian mutters, “What have we unleashed?”

Gal just sighs. “Leave her to it. She’ll tire herself out.”

Sera’s practically dancing; it’s somehow audible. They can hear her say to the camp at large, “Guess who went to wake our Herald up and found him in bed with Ser Fancypants?”

Varric sounds wry. “Sera, they share a tent pretty often.”

“Not like this they don’t. They were all sappy and… snuggling and that.”

And that’s that. There’s only so much his pride can take. Dorian takes himself from a thoroughly tempting bedroll and grabs his pack. “Flagrant lies,” he responds, ducking out of the tent.

Varric sighs, but he’s grinning. “Come on, Sparkler, we all figured it out months ago.”

He sniffs disdainfully, sitting by the fire and rifling through his gear. Soap, where did he put the soap… “There wasn’t much to figure out months ago.”

He hears a sigh and a muffled curse from the tent, and a rustling. Well, at least he’ll soon have backup.

Sera says, “Well, Varric did. Mostly Cassandra thought he kept taking you along because Vivienne hated him and Solas was boring, then I said it was cause you were a laugh and he liked your arse.”

“It was because he’s our best battlemage,” Gal says from behind him.

Dorian looks up and raises a surprised brow. He’s never been called modest, but this had escaped his notice.

Gal looks back at him. “You’re still standing when I’m on my back.”

Dorian pauses, ignoring the flutter of flattered surprise in his chest, and remarks, “There are so many comments that come to mind. I’ve no idea where to start.”

He’s still waiting for the hasty denial of any improper connections, _something,_ but he’s also beginning to realise that it won’t come. Instead Gal’s just looking at him with that quiet, infectious warmth that makes him want to smile in response. The attention feels a little like being in the sun; it’s the sort that’s tempting to bask in. Gal’s looking for all the world as if he’d like to just lean over and kiss -

Dorian shakes himself from that thought, making sure it hasn’t shown on his face.

Gal sits next to him and adds, “Though you are a laugh.” Gal passes over something small and wrapped in paper. “Found this with my gear. Think it was an accident.”

Dorian takes it, unwrapping… the soap. “Ah. Thank you.” He ignores Sera and Varric’s conspicuous smirking. “Normally I’m better at this sort of thing.”

“You were dead on your feet. We all were.”

“Unwise to say such things to a necromancer. Or, indeed, when the dead _are_ on their feet.”

Gal huffs a laugh, and Sera mutters, “Urrrghhh,” with an audible shudder.

How odd. Dorian thinks he’s starting to get his cheer back. “In fact, with the Veil torn to shreds and all the strange magic floating around, it’s a wonder we haven’t been pounced upon by undead already. They could arrive at any moment. Don’t assume we’ll be warned, either.”

Sera mutters something that isn’t quite audible. It seems to involve muffled cursing.

He carefully examines the contents of his pack, and continues, “I’m told they have a particular fondness for archers. They make lean meat.”

“Ugh. Now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

He allows his smile through. “Absolutely.” He adds, “Now, at least one of us should bathe, before the Inquisition gains a reputation.” He gets to his feet and heads for the nearest river, preparing for his morning ablutions to be… bracing. He thinks longingly of linen sheets, hot springs and sleeping without shambling skeletons around every corner.

“But I was right about you two,” he hears Sera say.

“We were conserving warmth,” Gal replies. “Can’t have my team dying of cold.”

Varric snickers. “Yeah, sure. I’m not about to argue with the mighty Inquisitor. I’m just freaked out by seeing you smile so much. I keep looking behind me for dead demons.”

Gal makes that low laugh - the sort that means the joke wasn’t particularly funny, but he’s happy enough that he’d probably let a stab wound slide, and even the tattoos aren’t enough to make him look menacing. He’s probably doing that silent, wide beam that makes him look like the slightly toothy star of a romance novel cover.

And, Dorian realises, he’s missing it. Shortly afterwards, he realises he’s unduly bothered by that.

_Dammit._

Varric continues, “Seems like your… thing makes you happy.”

“Very,” Gal says. “He’s… It’s good.” He cuts himself off quickly, but it’s interesting to consider what he might have said. And the disgustingly bright-eyed look that’s probably on his face, and the fact that he’s only feet away, and they have a (somewhat) free morning -

Dorian inhales, tries not to kick himself, and turns on his heel, striding across camp. He clears his throat and says to a surprised Gal, “My apologies, but I’ve remembered an urgent matter we must discuss. In private, if possible.”

Sera cackles. Varric’s eyebrows threaten to abandon his forehead altogether. Dorian ignores them both.

Gal’s recovery is admirable. He manages, “I… Yes.” He gets to his feet more hastily than is entirely proper.

Dorian puts a hand on his arm, and says as they start to walk away together, “You still need to shave. As I said: it’s urgent.”

Gal watches him levelly. “And that’s all?”

Dorian grins, and makes sure to catch Gal’s eye. “It’s not the _only_ reason.”

Gal beams at him. Dorian thinks that it’s exactly as sappy as he expected. He looks over his shoulder to where Sera appears to be giving him the… thumbs-up? and Varric is carefully absorbed in writing notes, and somehow, the fear he’s been bracing himself for is now nowhere to be found.

 _It’s good,_ he remembers Gal saying.

He looks into Gal’s eyes, feels the frankly idiotic smile on his own face, and thinks, _Yes, it is._

Perhaps he can have this.


	17. A Request

Josephine hears him before she sees him: the clanking of mail; the slow, awkward steps of someone who is uncertain, or nervous. Gal clears his throat, and she looks up from her paperwork.

“Josephine…” It still surprises her, sometimes: how soft-spoken he is for such a big man, one who cultivates such a fierce visage. His face shows strain, and she wonders what grave matter this will be.

“Inquisitor.” She keeps her voice carefully neutral and waits. She has been preoccupied with planning their approach at Halamshiral, but things like this are equally important. The Inquisition will not function if the man at the helm collapses.

“Would you…” He clears his throat. “Could you teach me to dance?”

 


	18. Formality

Dorian sighs. The Inquisitor’s in a long meeting with Josephine, he was told; something about preparations for the Winter Palace. Far from something he’s looking forward to himself, but there’s been an impressive amount of swearing from Gal, and they’ve spent too many late nights going through etiquette.

He fidgets, trying his best to pay attention to _Secrets of the Mortalitasi, Volume Fourteen,_ and eventually gives up on the endeavour. He wants… _kaffas_ , he thinks he actually misses the man. And they’re in the same fortress. This thing they have is evidently turning him into some sort of sap. He finds himself wandering downstairs, walking past Solas - the elf is absorbed in his own work, of course, barely looking up - and eventually ends up sitting on the steps outside Gal’s quarters, _Secrets of the Mortalitasi_ balanced on his knees. He knows where the reluctant Herald will come after a stressful meeting. Here or, not entirely coincidentally, the library. Here is more likely, if it’s been a bad one.

Not that he’s noticed.

He sniffs, returning to his reading and waiting. He could let himself in with the key he possesses, but that would be frighteningly domestic, and besides, he’s sure Gal won’t be long. It’s been an hour and a half, it’s regarding the Winter Palace, and the man’s patience is limited.

He looks up a few minutes later at the sound of footsteps.

He wonders who the fresh-faced young man is heading up the stairs. Perhaps the Inquisition has mislaid a rather scenic messenger, albeit one wearing a glare that could curdle milk. One wearing some sort of formal uniform. One who’s heavily tattooed, and whose face softens as he catches sight of Dorian, and… oh.

It takes a moment longer for him to say it, just in case he’s wrong, but he knows by now that he isn’t. “…Gal?”

This strange intruder grimaces. “Blame Josephine.”

It’s… different. Dorian’s seen all of this before in one way or another: Gal without the “war paint,” Gal shaven - but that’s usually a rough, hurried job with a dagger in the mornings that grows out fast, and Dorian’s barely awake enough himself to pay any attention. He’s even seen Gal with his hair tied back, swept away from his face. Perhaps it’s the combination of all three at once, or the outfit, or Gal’s fidgety nervousness, but he looks… well, he looks like the sort of eligible nobleman that would have turned Dorian’s head at Imperium parties. Sharp cheekbones, full mouth, fine eyes. Perhaps a little too Marcher for most back home, but quite something, at least to Dorian.

Dorian puts the book aside and slowly stands, unable to stop himself from studying Gal. Call it… academic curiosity. Gal grits his teeth, looking at the wall, his discomfort obvious. Well, that can’t be allowed to stand.

Dorian runs a hand over one unusually smooth cheek, and Gal finally looks at him, blinking in surprise. Certain things are becoming rather more obvious without five layers of kohl and paint, and Dorian leans in to say, “You have awfully long eyelashes.”

That surprised blink again. Dorian smiles, hoping for one in return.

There’s a softness to Gal’s face without the performance. It’s not quite innocence or youth, and the scars are still there, but it’s interesting to see. Dorian has wondered before what Gal would have looked like before all this, and he sees it, or at least a shade of it. Aside from the tattoos, the man before him is, well… almost handsome in the sort of way nobles coo over, the sort of man one’s daughter would take home. The sort Dorian would have enjoyed debauching.

Gal sighs and starts, “This is why I don’t…” He seems to lose the words, looking at his hands.

“Shave properly?” Dorian suggests, in the silence.

Gal glares at him.

“I, for one, rather like it,” Dorian adds, running his thumb over that soft, tattooed lower lip. He presses a kiss to it, feeling Gal relax. “But do you?”

Gal gives him a look so harrowed and tired that it’s almost hilarious. It’s exaggerated, subtle as Gal is about it; the man has a sense of humour under it all. “I’m never bloody doing this again.”

“What, so you’ll go and play the scruffy barbarian at the Winter Palace?”

“Scruffy barbarian in a…” Gal reaches down and tugs at his jacket. “This needs letting out in the shoulders. In _this_.” That self-conscious misery settles over his face again, and it takes Dorian’s thoughts straight back to the taciturn, awkward man of the first days in Haven - a man he doesn’t want to see return.

Before his mind has much say in the matter, he’s stepping around Gal, releasing the tight knot usually only worn for training, letting Gal’s hair fall. He fluffs it up a little, being unnecessarily fussy until Gal’s muttering and taking his hands, dragging them away - but smiling, too. It’s a start.

“You know,” Dorian says conspiratorially, “I’ve always had a thing for scruffy barbarians.”

Gal shakes his head, looking more like himself with all that hair, obviously trying not to laugh.

“Now, do you want to stay in those clothes, or…?”

Gal kisses him, still half-laughing, already moving to unlock the door. Dorian supposes he has his answer.


	19. Pretexts

A fact that few people know: the Herald of Andraste is a _cuddler._ Dorian contemplates the ceiling, still a little dazed, Gal sprawled with an arm across his chest. After a few moments pass, he manages, “Do you think I could stage a small-scale kidnapping and keep you here for the rest of the afternoon?”

Gal laughs. It’s almost silent, but Dorian feels it against his skin. “Is it a kidnapping if I’m willing and these are my quarters?”

“No, but I do so like to maintain my reputation.”

“Dorian, no-one thinks you’re kidnapping me.”

“They might, if I keep quietly dragging you up here. But that would require finding the time.”

He tries not to sound too resentful. There is a world to save and a Breach to seal, after all. But between their busy schedules, it’s rare to be able to do non-essential things, such as test the resilience of this rather fine bed. Mostly when they’ve met it’s been to discuss strategies and party makeup. Well, that and the odd little shard-pieces they’ve kept finding. He’s been doing his best to analyse them - it’s mainly involved a lot of arguing with Dagna and the mages, and they’ve come to the conclusion that the pieces are pointing them somewhere. There’s been the odd bit of necking, and once or twice they’ve ended up doing this, but life has been, if anything, even more hectic than usual. Gal blames it on the unfortunate intersection of shard plans, Emprise du Lion movements and plans for the Winter Palace. Dorian blames it on the Maker having a grudge.

He continues, “I’m beginning to think this is punishment for my folly. It was probably a bad idea attempting to woo the great Inquisitor himself.”

Sighing, Gal says, “The Maker doesn’t hate you.”

“I hadn’t said - “

“You were about to.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You don’t even think He exists.”

“Prefer it to thinking He hates me.” Gal hesitates, looks up at him significantly. “Though sometimes I wonder if I’ve done something right.”

The laughter finds its way out before Dorian can help himself. It might be the effect of his pulse doubling. “So it’s like that, is it? And to think our lady ambassador’s worried you won’t be able to sweet-talk the Orlesian court.”

Gal lets out a low groan. “You’re merciless. All I’ve heard from the war council for the past week is bloody rifts and bloody Halamshiral. Don’t you have to go and argue with Fiona?”

Dorian sighs, “And I was in such a good mood, too.” He’ll have to find Horatius’ _Fifth Mana_ _Theorem,_ gather his notes and become strategically deaf to Orlesian accents.

Gal shifts to lie back and smirk at the bed canopy. “You’ve got half an hour. You’ll be all right.”

“And you? Isn’t there some minor nation you have to doom to its fate?”

Shaking his head, Gal says, with a smugness that should be illegal, “Hour and a half.”

Dorian says, a suspicion sneaking up on him, “You cleared your schedule for this, didn’t you?”

“…Sort of.” A hint of pinkness is creeping up Gal’s neck. “This is officially ‘paperwork and leisure.’”

Dorian barks a surprised laugh, unable to help himself, and leans over to regard Gal down the bridge of his nose. “Paperwork, am I?”

Gal smiles tiredly at him. “Definitely the leisure.”

Dorian presses a kiss to the corner of Gal’s mouth and grins at him. “You know, there’s a lot one can do with half an hour.”

Raising an eyebrow, Gal says, “Is there now?”

And of course, that’s when there’s a knock at the door and: “Inquisitor?” It sounds like a rather tentative messenger. “Word from Griffon Wing Keep for you.”

Gal sighs, his head falling back onto the pillow.

Dorian shifts away and says, waving a hand towards the door, “No, please, don’t let _attending to paperwork_ stop you.”

“Give me two minutes!” Gal calls, and somehow manages to scrabble for clothing while glaring at Dorian steadily.

Dorian just sighs, gathering his things. He ends up hobbling to Gal’s desk, still lacing his boots as he goes - he might have been self-conscious once, but Gal’s too busy rushing to get dressed himself - because he suspects he left his copy of Horatius there.

Gal’s still slightly breathless when he answers the door, and he doesn’t open it very wide. “Sorry, I was… filing. Reports. You asked for me?”

“Inquisitor…” the messenger says from outside the door. She pauses. “What was that noise, ser? Is… everything alright?”

That noise was, in fact, Dorian knocking the _Fifth Mana Theorem_ off Gal’s desk and mouthing _Kaffas!_ as eight hundred pages’ worth of leatherbound book hit the floor. Not that the poor girl would know.

“What noise?” Gal says, innocently. “Didn’t hear anything.”

“I…” the messenger manages, and hesitates. That hesitation tells Dorian that half of Skyhold probably knows why Gal seems so very enthusiastic about report-filing. “Nothing, ser.”

Good. She’ll go far. Dorian nods approvingly to no-one in particular, and winces as he picks up Horatius. The man could have stood to be more concise. Seven hundred more pages concise, ideally.

Gal returns with a report in one hand - judging from the neat, repressed handwriting, Cullen’s added several notes - and a grimace on his face, one that makes Dorian laugh and say, “ _Amatus,_ you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met. It’s refreshing, actually.”

Something crosses Gal’s face at that, and he smiles briefly before he says, “We could just… say something.”

“What, ‘Your Inquisitor and _the Tevinter_ are doing terrible, marvellous things in his quarters, so please allow an extra half-hour before you send reports’?”

Gal raises an eyebrow. “Maybe not that. But… something.”

“Pin a piece of parchment to the door, perhaps?”

Gal just _looks_ at him.

“I jest. But honestly, anyone would think you wanted to proclaim this to the world.” Gal looks like he’s about to say something - probably something terrifying and so very _Gal_ like, _I do_ \- so Dorian looks towards the door. “And now I really do have to go, or Fiona will murder me.”

“Then who’d insult our Chantry history section?”

“Precisely.”

Gal sighs. “And Cullen wants to see me.”

“Find me later,” Dorian says, heading towards the door. He feels a hand come to rest on his arm, and then Gal’s turning him gently. He frowns, but Gal only presses one of those brief, gentle kisses to his lips. It’s a quiet, affectionate thing, a farewell borne of familiarity. It’s still strange, and it feels far too good.

“I will,” Gal says.

Dorian steps away before the urge to stay becomes too much. “Good,” he says, and leaves trying his best not to think about _paperwork and leisure._


	20. The Golden Floor

Halamshiral is whispers and Orlesians and sweeping skirts. The architecture is beautiful - the scenery is beautiful - but Gal’s taken straight back to his mother’s parties. He’s trying to relax his face and not look too intimidating, waiting for some dowager’s daughter to “accidentally” bump into him with a coy wink, when Josephine catches his eye. Even she looks worried, but it resolves itself into determination, and she gives him the hint of a smile.

He remembers hours of lessons on what to say, what _not_ to say, how to be a Trevelyan again when he hasn’t worn the name in years. He remembers stumbling round her office, haltingly trying to keep up with her steps. Different from swordwork. He remembers her tilting her head, looking at him and saying, too casually, “I had been about to suggest dancing lessons, but you beat me to it. Is there are a reason you want to perfect the waltz?” And he remembers lying, mumbling something about the Game and nothing about the one dance he does want.

Too many nobles. Too many coy suggestions. He still keeps expecting to see his mother round every corner. He has to pull his shoulders down from round his ears, and he feels naked without a shield at his back, even if it’s just a few rooms away. He shaved a few hours before they arrived, but it’s already growing back, and he’s too aware of the itch.

He hears the whispers change first, when he enters the gardens: he hears something about Tevinters and magisters, and then he knows. He split off from his team when he entered the palace - he’d raised an eyebrow at the announcement of each of them and the bloody _amount_ of Dorian’s titles, and Dorian tipped him a sly wink, but then they went their separate ways. It takes him a couple of minutes until he runs across a familiar figure in the gardens.

Dorian watches him levelly, glass of wine in hand - a little way off from the rest of the guests, half-shadowed by masonry and trees. He prefers the shadows, Gal’s noticed; likes to take a corner and keep an eye on the room. It’s something Gal’s always thought of as a warrior’s instinct, but somehow it makes sense for Dorian, too.

Gal’s heart is in his throat, but he remembers the months of lessons. Tries. He mumbles something about being saved a dance. (It should be a joke, but it isn’t.)

Dorian laughs it off, but something that might be surprise, or maybe fear, crosses his face briefly before he covers it again. There was curiosity, too, something bright under it all.

Gal doesn’t push. There’s no point. The lessons serve their purpose and come in useful for taking down Florianne du Chalons, and afterwards…

He needs air. He steps away from the chattering and the Orlesian accents, trying not to stumble blindly for the nearest door. It’s still not enough.

And after they’ve gained a new arcane advisor, he stands in the cool night air. Tries to breathe. There’s a tightness under his skin, the kind that comes before a headache, and the exhaustion of too many fights and too much smiling through his teeth is settling into his bones. It hasn’t hit him yet, but soon he’ll want to go home and sleep. And sleep’d be better with company.

He turns at a sound from behind him, tensing, but it’s just Dorian. Dorian, who looks at him in concern and asks how he feels, and then… offers a dance, and a hand.

Gal’s only surprised a moment. He takes Dorian’s hand, and they fall into step. The music from the ballroom is slow, quiet, and they adjust to it.

They turn together, and Gal says, “I’ve never been much of a dancer.”

Dorian raises a brow. “I’m realising I forgot to cast a barrier on my feet.”

Gal laughs under his breath. “Hope I’m not that bad.”

“I’m not too unimpressed. You are, however, letting me lead. Is that panic?”

“It’s knowing I’m outmatched.”

Dorian grins. “You may be too tall for me to pull anything showy.”

“Don’t have to. It’s you.”

“I’m showy by nature?”

Gal tries to find the words. “No. You’re… enough. For me, at least.”

That surprise-fear-something crosses Dorian’s face again, and his eyes are bright, but he smiles. It’s gentle, and not like the false, amused-noble smirk he’s been wearing for most of tonight. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

“Why? They’re true.”

Dorian glances downwards - probably checking their footing. “Josephine’s lessons have paid off, I see.”

“I tried. Had a few reasons to practice.”

Dorian looks up, and meets Gal’s eye. Gal just looks at him significantly.

Dorian says, with a surprised huff of laughter, “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Gal fails to shrug while dancing. “I wanted to see if I could enjoy it. Too used to being bored at parties.”

“That makes two of us. It’s some time since I’ve done this without magisters glaring from the sidelines. I prefer this.”

“Me too. You’re better company than the Orlesians.”

Dorian laughs, but that brightness is settling behind his eyes again. Like the moment after Gal invited him to stay and said they should try a relationship. It’s surprise, but it’s… pleased. Dorian says, “I should hope so. Most people are.” There’s a pause. Dorian searches Gal’s face and seems to like what he finds there. With surprising gentleness, he pulls Gal closer, then reaches up and runs a thumb across Gal’s cheek. “I see Josephine’s finally convinced you to shave.”

Gal grimaces - that gets a laugh from Dorian - and says, “Itches.” He pauses. “Good for some things, though.” He closes the distance between them.

Dorian relaxes into the kiss after a half second of surprise, hand tightening on Gal’s waist. It’s gentle, a brief thing, but Dorian rests there instead of pulling back, his forehead against Gal’s. He draws Gal gently back into step, into time, and says, with more of that low amusement, “Tell me, do you normally enjoy political suicide?” His voice is quiet, probably impossible to hear from in the ballroom. It’s a tone Gal doesn’t hear often - one that usually comes up when they’re in bed, or when one of them’s injured, or when Dorian’s deep in a book - and it’s slightly worried.

Gal replies, “Don’t enjoy political anything. But I might like this.”

Dorian’s laugh this time is gentler, and the tension leaves him.

Gal lets himself relax, too. For a while, there’s just the two of them, and the warmth and steadiness of Dorian against him; the way Dorian looks at him, smiles at him. He’s probably forgetting steps, but he doesn’t care. He’s here and not in some Ostwick mansion years ago, dreading waiting for a match and stiff introductions. Even if the last remnants of the party might be pointing and whispering, there’s an Inquisition at his back if he needs it, and there’s a man holding him close, a man he… cares about.  For a while, the world can wait.


	21. Kohl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is basically a redux of the first fic I ever wrote with these two, more than a year ago. It was longhand in a letter, so I never got round to putting it online. So here’s a remix/addendum/whatever you like. In which makeup is a more troublesome metaphor than it’s worth.

There’s one decent looking-glass in Haven, in a Chantry back room, next to the tin bath and the spring source. Gal’s in front of it, squinting at himself. He looks like shit - he’s halfway to a beard, there’s a part-healed gash on his cheek, and even the shaved side of his hair is starting to grow out - but he doesn’t feel much different. He’ll live. (Except he meets the eyes of his reflection and sees how dull they are, and wonders if that’s true. Once he thought he wouldn’t mind. Now he remembers what happens to them all, his… friends, if he doesn’t. Remembers being pulled out of a castle that was mostly Fade-rubble, same way he got pulled out of the Conclave. So maybe he’d mind. Someone has to make all that worth it.) 

He reaches into his pocket, unwraps the kohl, and… it crumbles in his fingers. Someone must have given him a good enough hit in a fight.

Fuck.

He’s trying to apply what’s mostly powder when the door opens behind him.

“Oh - I apologise. I hadn’t known the room was occupied.”

Gal turns, and sees Dorian stepping through the door. ( _The mage from Redcliffe,_ he often says in briefings, or to Josephine, but in his head  _the Tevinter mage_ or _Pavus_ became _Dorian_ soon after they met, and it’s stayed that way. Gal doesn’t know why.)  Dorian’s still in his usual leathers, but they’re unbuckled slightly at the collar, his hair’s a little more dishevelled than usual and there’s a cloth hanging from one of his pockets. Gal can tell the man’s hoping for a bath.

“I was just leaving,” Gal says. He knows he looks like he’s headbutted some charcoal. He can’t do anything about it, so he avoids Dorian’s gaze instead.

“Oh no, don’t flee on my account.” On anyone else, the look he gives Gal would be almost sheepish, but this is Dorian, and he wears confidence like it’s easy. He tilts his head and looks at Gal consideringly, then his eyes fall to the kohl in Gal’s hand. “Ah. My condolences.” He unbuckles one of the pouches at his belt and comes out with something, then reaches out across the space between them.

Gal takes the small, useable stick of kohl, and their fingers brush. Dorian’s hand is warm, steady, and his fingers are calloused. Gal blinks at it, then at Dorian. “I… Thank you.”

Dorian nods. “Think nothing of it. Someone has to frighten the templars, after all.” Then he’s moving to leave.

“Dorian - “

The mage turns. “Keep it. I have more than enough.” Dorian smiles, and it’s softer than the knife-slash smirk he wears when he’s casting or dealing with the advisers. More real. Then it’s gone, and he is too.

Gal’s left in an empty washroom, thinking that the secret Dorian tries so hard to keep isn’t that he’s Venatori, or that he’s practising dark magic; it’s that he’s kind.

* * *

The months pass. After Skyhold and after Halamshiral, they’re a little way from camp, somewhere in the Oasis - _somewhere_ is the best they can say; the place is labyrinthine. Gal’s groggily applying kohl, yawning and unable to stifle it because his hands are busy. 

Dorian’s sitting on a rock next to him, having long since made himself presentable, up to his knees in the little pool they’ve found. He’s even got round to waxing his moustache, though with the heat he doubts it’ll last long. Perhaps a minor displacement spell… 

Gal raises a hand to rub at the kohl, then glares at his black-smudged fingers. “Fuck.” It’s the lack of greasepaint; Gal managed to forget it and only remembered two days after they’d set off from Skyhold. It would probably never have happened six months ago, but he’s been wearing the warpaint less, recently - in fights, yes, but around the fortress he can often be found looking… well, almost comfortable and not like he’s preparing to disembowel someone.

Dorian glances in his direction, and then squints.

Gal pauses. “What?”

“Come here,” Dorian sighs, on the edge of a laugh.

Gal frowns but obeys, shifting closer.

Dorian says, “Go out like that and you’d fit in at an Orlesian ball.” He snorts at Gal’s grunt of displeasure. “Exactly.” He dips his fingers in the water, shakes them off, and then says, “Close your eyes.” He picks up the little stick, adds a few finishing touches, and smears the kohl until Gal looks like something to frighten the children again. “There we go. The Venatori will be spoiling their robes at the sight of you.”

Gal’s mouth twitches. “That’s a compliment?”

Dorian’s focus is shifting significantly, but he replies, “Oh yes.” He means to say something else, but his hands are lingering on Gal’s face and his mind is running away with him. “Of course, the effect on me is rather different, all told.”

Gal’s eyes open, if only so Gal can give him an amused, questioning look.

Dorian leans forwards and presses a slow kiss to Gal’s mouth. “Different,” he repeats. He feels Gal grin, and then they get rather distracted. Said distraction involves splashing and the odd bit of swearing, but it’s mutually enjoyable.

He ends up going back to camp first, running a magic-warmed hand through his hair to get it dry and in some semblance of order. He arrives next to the fire, and Sera and Cassandra look up. And freeze. Sera splutters, and Cassandra goes pink.

He sighs, glaring at them. “I take it you have something to say?”

Cassandra digs in her pack and then passes him a looking-glass.

He frowns at his reflection for half a second before he notices the black, smudged fingerprints along his cheekbone, and the greyish, smeared line under his jaw. There’s a similar, smaller one on his bottom lip.  He remembers Gal’s dark-stained hands.

Bloody kohl.

“…Ah,” he manages. “Thank you.” He silently passes the mirror back to Cassandra, ignoring Sera’s snickering, and turns on his heel to clean up, and to make sure Gal’s not in a similar state. 

There’s something warm in his chest, and it’s not just the heat of abject embarrassment. It’s… It might be the fact that Sera’s laughter has no edge to it, or that no-one has spat at him yet, or it might be… 

Six months ago, this would never have happened. He would have checked so very thoroughly for any hint of disrepute, for any mark of a man. He wouldn’t have forgotten. It’s a strange luxury, being able to. A little embarrassment is far preferable to despair.

The South is changing him, he thinks. Or perhaps it’s not that simple. He thinks of Gal and the lack of greasepaint, of the so often barefaced man who sneaks badly into his quarters and kisses him in the Arcane History section. Perhaps he’s not the only one who’s changing.

He won’t forget again. But maybe once was enough.


	22. Mutual Domesticity

Dorian’s sitting in the Inquisitorial quarters, halfway through Forder’s _Observations on Dust in the Fade_ \- very few of which match his experience of the place when he’d walked there with the others - when he hears a key in the lock. He raises a brow, but doesn’t look away from the book, just waits.

Gal walks in with that slight stumble which speaks of exhaustion, and when he closes and locks the door, he looks like he wants to lean against it.

“Long day?” Dorian says.

Gal nods, then turns and… stops. Pauses. He blinks and tilts his head.

Dorian frowns back. “What?” Then he notices Gal’s eyes running over him, and looks down at himself. He’s wearing a decently comfortable shirt - one of the few in the home style he has left, after a trying journey - with breeches and boots. It takes him a moment, and then he knows. He looks back to Gal and says, “You didn’t think I lived in leathers, did you? You’ve seen more than this.”

Gal looks sheepish and runs a hand through his hair. “Only when we’re sleeping and…” He shrugs. “Sex.” He takes the band from his hair, shaking it out, before he sits on the bed and starts on his boots.

“You’re usually calling me out to some battle or other, when we meet.” Dorian puts the book aside and just watches for a moment, trying not to be distracted by the breadth of those excellent shoulders. “Or we’ve just returned from one and I’m rather busy being glad to be alive to worry about changing.” He pauses. “Halamshiral?”

“That was a uniform.” Gal starts on his shirt, and Dorian’s focus fails entirely. Gal snorts.

“What?” Dorian demands.

“Can feel you looking.”

Dorian picks up his book again and says, with care, “Are you _sure_ you’re exhausted?”

Gal grins ruefully. “Wish I wasn’t.” He kicks his breeches off and falls to lie back with a sigh, long legs hanging off the bed. It’s a ridiculous sight, and yet oddly… endearing. He says, after a moment, “Were you waiting for me?”

Dorian gives up on the book entirely. “Now why would I do that?” he says idly, standing and sauntering over to the bed.

“Because you adore me.” Gal’s voice is matter-of-fact - _almost_. There’s a warm tint to it, as if he’s… Ah.

“Here I thought I’d gotten away with that,” Dorian sighs, blaming his proximity to the fire for the warmth in his face. Then he sits on the bed and leans to peer at Gal - who’s, yes, grinning, looking utterly unlike a man who terrifies Venatori on the regular.

“I’ve… never had someone say that to me before.” Gal’s face has turned thoughtful, but there’s something else to it, his brow creasing and his eyes distant.

Dorian can recognise sadness when he sees it. “Pity you’ve never met another man with taste.”

He stretches out alongside Gal, hands behind his head, staring at the bed canopy. The fire crackles in the grate and throws flickering shadows on the walls, the room is for once warm, and he’s lying on the most comfortable bed in Skyhold. Oh, and then there’s the Inquisitor, of course. Things could be worse.

He glances downwards when he feels fingers at his wrist, and realises that Gal’s holding his sleeve, pinching it and rubbing the material between his thumb and finger. It’s an odd contrast, scars and callouses against fine Imperial silk, but not an unwelcome one. Gal mumbles, “Good colour.”

“Hm?” He’s relaxed, thinking of whether he can sneak an extra blanket into his pack for the next time they’re sleeping on freezing stone.

“Green’s a good colour on you.” Gal’s hand traces over the embroidery with a gentle, drowsy slowness. “You staying?”

Dorian replies, his voice more casual than he feels, “Why not? I’ve wasted enough time already.” He moves to bend and work on his boots. “I should invent some charm for this,” he grouses, as he throws them off with slightly more force than necessary. He almost knocks over Gal’s, which are put together next to the bed with that terrifying Chantry-raised neatness. He shoves off his breeches and thinks that before, he might have made more effort and tried to look… well, not quite as absurd. He had a need to impress, after all. He still does, he thinks, too aware of the man behind him. He feels a shift of weight on the mattress, and then a strong, warm hand slides beneath his shirt to touch his back. _As if summoned_ , he thinks, with too much amusement. “Enjoy it while you can,” he says wryly.

He strips that off, too, and then Gal’s arm is round his waist, coaxing him backwards. He ends up lying there, staring at the fire, with a warm, mostly-asleep Marcher curled around him. He lasts a minute and then he moves, reaching for…

The blanket almost seems to appear from nowhere, thrown over him with little fanfare, and Gal murmurs, “Can’t believe you’re cold.”

“Not all of us can be furnaces,” Dorian retorts.

He lies there, drowsy and on the edge of sleep, and stares at the bed canopy, wondering when he became used to this. When he started preferring to ignore his own quarters and slip into Gal’s, or when exactly the guards started just giving him a matter-of-fact nod and letting him in without asking questions; he swears one of them _winked_ at him the other day, and he was so surprised he only managed to halfheartedly glare back. He wonders when he began sleeping better with familiar company and warm skin near his.

He wonders why staying feels quite so good. He thinks he knows.

 


	23. Mornings

The _not quite leaving_. That’s what Dorian calls it.

It’s Gal being half-awake, stumbling into bed and pulling Dorian with him. Sometimes it’s staying up too late talking about some piece of magical philosophy or debriefing, until they’re yawning every other word and they end up shoving clothes off before falling asleep. Sometimes it’s something else. Once, after a fight with a pride demon, they were both so exhausted that Dorian didn’t even get his leathers off before he fell asleep.  

It’s a quiet voice in Gal’s ear and a warmth next to him, Dorian muttering something sleepily about leaving soon and having too much to do. And in the morning, it’s “This… isn’t quite leaving, is it?” said with a low laugh, a stifled yawn and the kind of hesitation Gal doesn’t see often. (And there’s something strange about seeing Dorian with messy hair and a night’s worth of dark stubble. Something honest. Something good.)

“Looks a lot like staying,” Gal says groggily, the fourth time it happens, and rolls to face him.

“You must be mistaken.” Dorian smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Gal wonders if he’s too half-asleep to put on the front well. “I was just… postponing my research.”

“Postpone it further?” Gal says, and moves closer to press a kiss to Dorian’s collarbone, then another under his jaw, lingering on the stubble there, sliding a hand onto his hip.

Grinning, Dorian says, “I could be persuaded.”

The sixth time, Dorian mumbles against Gal’s shoulder, “This bed is obscenely large.” His eyes are still closed. “Preposterously. Unnecessarily.”

Gal half-smiles. “Room for two.”

“Five, at least.” Dorian opens an eye. “Room for  _us_? Certainly.”

Gal remembers the hesitation in Dorian’s eyes and remembers the excuses. He remembers Dorian’s reluctance to stay, even that first night, and the unspoken fear. Always the fear. “There’s always room for you if you want it. Would be wasting a decent bed otherwise..”

He feels Dorian smile. “You say that now. Wait until you’re digging copies of  _Thaumaturgy and the Mind_ out from under the quilts.”

“I’d be a hypocrite to complain. You nearly sat on my  _Marches Chivalry_ yesterday.”

With the slightest laughter against Gal’s skin, Dorian says, “True. And… I prefer it here.” When Gal looks down at him in surprise, Dorian adds matter-of-factly, “You have a better fireplace. And a rather useful nightlight to read by.” Dorian tugs gently on Gal’s hand.

Gal laughs and feels Dorian do the same. But as the days go by, he realises that Dorian’s  _not-quite-leaving_ most nights.

* * *

 

Gal wakes blinking at the ceiling and wondering where he is. He always does at first - he sees plush furnishings and a good fireplace and thinks he must be in the Fade. He’s used to barracks, tents and the odd cottage. Then he remembers last night.

He looks to his side, catching sight of a broad back and mussed black hair. Dorian’s sprawled face-down, head pillowed on his forearms, graceless. No performance or art to it.

Gal tries not to grin. (It makes him remember the first time, and spending most of a war council half-daydreaming about magic thrumming under skin and muscular arms. Cursing himself for leaving a note instead of staying, dazed at how lucky he was. He still is. Makes him remember earlier, too: Haven, and dismissing this kind of thing as a half-spun daydream. Being entranced by the brilliant, strange mage and telling himself it was only about arcane curiosity.)

He looks at the scar where a blade must have got through - serrated, maybe a dagger - and something older that might be a well-healed burn. He touches them absentmindedly, as gently as he can. There are others, too, but those are the two he’s noticed before. He makes a note to keep a better eye on the ranged fighters next time.

Then he sighs and moves to find his clothes.

“Tch. The Herald of Andraste sneaking out of strange men’s beds. Imagine the scandal.”

Gal looks over his shoulder. Dorian’s squinting at him, obviously still half-asleep.

Gal says, “This is my bed.”

Dorian mumbles, half into the pillow, “I suppose you’re not any stranger than usual.”

Gal sighs. “I was getting my trousers.”

“Are you sure you’ll need them?” There’s a fiendish grin in Dorian’s voice, even if it’s slower to reach his lips.

Gal stifles a yawn, looking at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Could give the Frostbacks a run for their money. “We have to set off for the Wastes in four hours.”

“Exactly. Which means we have plenty of time.” Dorian sighs, and the bed dips. Gal looks down as a bed-warm arm wraps around his waist, and then Dorian says into his ear, “Come back to bed,  _amatus._ Even if just to sleep. The day is young.”

Gal closes his eyes a moment, smiling at the endearment, the man at his back, the fact he’s got four hours, and then decides to obey.

 


	24. Dignity

Dorian walks into the undercroft to discuss those odd spirit-shards with Dagna, and then stops. And stares. And he can’t quite restrain his laughter. It echoes along with the sound of the falls.

Gal would probably be glaring if not for the oversized helm that covers his eyes completely and ends some way past his jaw. The noseguard touches his chin. He looks like a boy stealing his father’s armour.

“I told Harrit it needed some adjustments,” Dagna pipes up from behind him.

Dorian tries to recover his composure. “…Adjustments. Yes.” He stalks over to Gal, examining it in morbid fascination. “Well, it’ll certainly have a striking effect on our enemies.”

Gal mumbles something, and it’s lost in the echo of silverite.

“Can you _see?”_ Dorian asks. He steps forward and lifts the helm slightly to peer into Gal’s eyes, receiving - ah, yes, a half-hearted glare for his trouble.

“Can when you do that,” Gal answers. He sighs. “I thought the wings were too much.”

“Oh, no, they add something… indefinable.” He remembers, then, and he gently lets the metal go. It slides back into place, probably throwing Gal once again into darkness. “Is this from those plans you found in the Wastes?”

Gal nods, and the helm wobbles. Dorian uses every ounce of will he has to keep his laughter silent.

Gal says, “You’re mocking me.”

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m the pinnacle of solemnity. And you’re laughing.”

Even under the helm, it’s obvious that Gal is biting back a grin. “No idea what you mean,” he echoes. “I’m just glad Sera isn’t here.” They both snort at that thought, and Gal slides the helm off his head, handing it back to Dagna and saying to her, “Thank you. Could you tell Harrit that I’ll be back in to talk about adjustments?”

For a woman raised under stone, Dagna has a remarkably sunny smile. “Sure. We’ll have it done before you can say ‘Corypheus’.”

Gal smiles back - the small, true one he uses for friends, no trace of the Inquisitor in it. It makes him look freer, more approachable, and… interesting. He’s foregone the war paint today, not even wearing the kohl; it’s possibly the third time that’s happened now. Dorian wonders if people have been startled by the fresh-faced stranger who keeps talking like he leads them. “You’re amazing,” Gal says, with that frightening sincerity.

Laughing, she says, “Only a little.”

Gal’s still grinning when he turns back to Dorian. “I’ll just - “ he starts, jabbing a thumb doorwards and starting to leave.

Dorian has, oddly enough, completely forgotten what his business here was. He falls into step with Gal and says, “No, no, I’ll accompany you. We can discuss further adjustments.” Then he says, for Gal’s ears only, “Should I be jealous?” It’s light, an obvious joke. Gal’s interests lie elsewhere. Besides, it’s not as if he has any sort of claim -

Gal gives him a _look,_ even edged as it is with laughter, and then says into his ear, “Not like you have to be. You know you’re amazing.” Gal’s mouth… lingers somewhat, and Dorian feels the slightest scrape of stubble, that smile against his cheek. “And one more word about the helm and I’m putting you in official plaidweave.”

Dorian looks over his shoulder but only sees Dagna, who appears to be grinning into her research and barely pretending not to eavesdrop. She looks up to give him a cheery wave. He returns it, trying not to show his surprise, before he says, “That would be an abuse of your power - “

“I’m stuck being Inquisitor. Might as well enjoy it,” Gal says, looking almost… fiendish.

* * *

“Inquisitor?”

Leliana raised an eyebrow when he walked into this meeting. Gal doesn’t think it’s come down since. She looks too knowing, and like she might be trying not to laugh.

Fuck. He can’t be that obvious. Can he? He used to be good at this. _Impassivity,_ he remembers being told, _is the mask of the templar. You must be able to assume it at will._ There’s barely been a second’s delay while he tries to focus, and he says, “I’m with Cullen. Adjust their rations? They can’t like being trapped in the Western Approach.”

He’s been listening, and he has been thinking of the Western Approach. (But he’s also been thinking of the night before, and the way Dorian looked asleep, and that low laughter at something he’d said. Also of when he’d given an honest compliment, called him _a good man,_ and Dorian had just stared. Dorian Pavus, speechless.)

There are nods and murmurs of assent. They’ve dealt with most of it: preparations for the Winter Palace, and for protecting the empress. Josephine’s been saying something about dress uniforms and looking at him with interest. That worries him. She’s doing it now, but her interest’s of a different kind - worry’s on her face. She watches him but she doesn’t say anything, and he’s grateful.

He heads to the rookery with Leliana to collect a couple of letters. Goes to the tavern and tells Bull and Krem about a job for the Chargers. Visits Dagna to ask her about the rune that’ll break Samson’s armour, and asks about the helm gently as he can. He knows she’s doing five things at once, usually for him. Shouldn’t ask for more.

There’s more to do, but he’s walking past the kitchens when someone grabs his arm. A sharp-nosed woman, with dark hair and a severe expression, and she nods. “Inquisitor.”

He takes his hand off his sword hilt, nods back. “I…” He hasn’t got her name. It shames him.

She sighs. “I’m a cook. Haven’t got the apron on yet. And we’ve all seen you about. Eat, before you fall over.” She presses something into his hand.

He blinks and moves to thank her, but she’s already gone and he’s not certain following her would be right. He frowns at… something wrapped up and shrugs.

He ends up sitting under the biggest tree in the gardens. A few people have given him odd looks, but generally he’s glared back and they haven’t tried to disturb him. He balances the parcel on his knee and unwraps it, still wary. Raises the contents to eye level and squints.

“Remarkably well-disguised, isn’t it?”

He looks over his shoulder in surprise.

Dorian saunters over and continues, “If it _is_ an assassination attempt. Myself, I think it may just be a ham sandwich.”

Gal examines it one more time in wonder. “She’s used decent mustard. I didn’t know we _had_ mustard.”

Sitting next to him, Dorian replies, “Oh, I’ve noticed. I’ll take it, if you’re not interested.”

Gal pretends to glare at him, then looks back to the sandwich. Rewraps it and puts it aside. He takes the morning’s letters out of his pockets, half-looks at them and mutters, “Inquisitor has first rights on all sandwiches.” They both seem to be requisitions requests. Business in the Emprise, mainly.

“You’re a tyrant.”

“A well-fed tyrant.” He lays the letters next to him, weighing the parchment down with his belt dagger. Then he looks up. He tries not to let everything show on his face, but he knows he’s failing. “I… Good morning.”

With a nod, Dorian says, “Good morning.” There’s a glint in his eye when he speaks again. “Do you know how hard it is to sneak out of your quarters when you’re not even beside me to provide a pretext? I can’t have an important meeting with myself, no matter how hard I try. The guards are trying not to laugh at me. Which might be why one somehow found himself startled by a dead spider.” He tilts his head. “Formerly dead, anyhow. Uncontrolled releasing of magic. Terrible accident. Tevinters are less disciplined about that sort of thing. I think that was what he was saying, at least.”

Gal snorts. “Don’t antagonise the troops.”

“What if they antagonise me first?”

“They’ve been doing that since Haven.”

Dorian pauses and looks like he’s considering that. “True.”

Gal looks at him interestedly. “Are we still doing pretexts? Thought most people knew.”

“If by ‘most people’ you mean our friends and that messenger you terrified with your sex hair - “

Gal puts his face in his palm. “Least I was dressed.”

“There’s that, yes. I’d say she took it rather well, all told.”

“That’s because she already knew.”

“She… I’m sorry?” Dorian raises a brow, his eyes just this side of wide.

“Think she saw me kiss you goodbye first time I left for the Wastes.”

“Ah.” Dorian exhales, nodding.

Gal sighs. “And I’d kiss you now, but half the troops are here for morning rations and Mother Giselle’s glaring at us. Thought you’d mind.”

Dorian leans back against the tree and says casually, “The troops are all here to see if you’re really consorting with the Magister of Skyhold. The Revered Mother _knows_ you are, and frankly I think her face might be stuck like that.”

“…Oh.”

“Rather puts a dampener on things, doesn’t it?”

Gal looks around and considers it. “Could be worse. At least there aren’t any demons.” He thinks about it. Realising he’s tempting fate, he adds, “Yet.”

Dorian huffs a laugh. “Yet,” he echoes. “But I meant what I said.” At Gal’s questioning look, he points to the sandwich. “Eat that, before I do.”

Gal silently looks at his idea of treasure. Looks back to Dorian. Calculates which one of them is faster.

Dorian looks back, obviously doing the same.

Giving Dorian a pointed look, Gal reaches for the sandwich, takes away the paper and bites into it. Then he makes a noise that severely startles the Revered Mother and makes several of the troops turn pink. “’S good,” he manages at Dorian’s loud silence.

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

Gal just mumbles, “Fuck pretexts,” and goes back to the sandwich, making a note to thank that cook and watching Dorian try not to laugh at Mother Giselle’s expression.

* * *

 The helm looks slightly less ridiculous after the adjustments, even if the dragon-wings would make several magisters raise an eyebrow. In Dorian’s opinion, anyway.

Gal buckles the chin-strap as they’re leaving Skyhold, walking tall and proud, and almost looks like something out of some old tome. An entirely stereotypical hero, except for the Tevinter pariah in his bed, Dorian tries not to think as they walk through the main hall with Sera and Cassandra.

And then Varric says from behind them, with a smirk in his voice, “Taking the Galahat for a spin?”

Sera cackles, Dorian makes a choked-off noise, and even Cassandra’s mouth is twitching.

Gal freezes. Then he turns, very, very slowly - all six-foot-odd of him, war paint very much present - and then simply looks at Varric. “I…” He put his head in his hands, suddenly looking very unheroic indeed. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “That’s… actually not bad. Or… really bad.”

Varric’s laughter is quiet, but smug. “Yeah, I thought so.”

Gal shakes his head and starts the walk again.

“You’re laughing,” Dorian says, as they head under the portcullis.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“I can hear you trying not to snicker like an overgrown child.”

“Plaidweave,” is all Gal says.

“Tyrant,” Dorian responds. It sounds far, far too fond.


	25. Quality Timetabling/Maps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually three small promptfics on the subject of "trying to spend time with the man you love that doesn't just involve slaughtering things when you're both insanely busy."

Gal unlocks the door to his quarters, steps inside and -

Pauses. Blinks. Turns and leaves. Stands in the corridor and inhales, mentally reciting the first lines of Transfigurations.

Then he tries again, squinting, and… no, still there. He tries not to stare at the man sprawled on his bed. Who is… not wearing anything. And very attractive. And -  _focus -_  who also appears to be asleep.

He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed and reaches out, running a hand through Dorian’s hair. Any threat to it is usually enough, and Dorian’s not the wake-up-and-put-a-blade-to-your-throat type.

Dorian stirs, blinking at him. “…Hm? Oh, it’s you.”

Gal half-grins. “I wondered if I was having a good dream. There a reason you’re naked?”

Dorian raises himself up on an elbow, a smile creeping onto his face. “About those dreams… Tell me more.”

“Later. I promise.”

Dorian sighs. “I’ll hold you to that. There… may have been some plan to surprise you, what with us barely having time to breathe for demons and bureaucracy the past week or so. I probably shouldn’t have attempted it while tired.”

Gal winces and looks guilty. “My meeting overran.”

“They always do. I was willing to wait.” Dorian frowns and pats at the sheets. “If I recall, there was a book here somewhere…” He leans over the edge of the bed, and says quietly, “Ah.”

Gal absentmindedly enjoys the view, and tries to put a sentence together. “Bit risky. You could have scarred a messenger.”

“Only two of us have keys to these quarters. And we both know how to lock doors.” Dorian rolls back over to meet Gal’s eye and raise a brow. “You certainly  _seem_ surprised.”

“Pleasantly,” Gal replies. He makes a show of looking Dorian over, rests a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “So… how tired  _are_  you?”

Dorian laughs. “Not  _that_ tired,” he says, sitting up to pull Gal into a kiss, grinning into it.

* * *

 Gal’s in his quarters, squinting at a report from the Emprise and thinking they should probably teach the scouts to  _write_ \- Cullen’s attached notes but they don’t clear up everything and he’s too tired to try and parse it all - when there’s a knock on the door.

He opens it and sees Dorian, who has an eyebrow raised, a bottle of Antivan brandy in one hand and  _Gerber’s Matters of Equilibrium_ under his arm. Dorian pointedly looks over the bottle. “Now, I had to check this for poison - quite thoroughly - but seeing as I came up empty and there’s only one person I’ve berated about this backwater’s lack of Gerber… I assume you’re responsible for these?”

Gal swallows, and waits. “Might be.” (He is. The brandy’s one of the good bottles Cabot keeps under the counter. You have to make a point of asking for it. Also one of Dorian’s favourites.) 

“What have I said about gifts?” But there’s an amused tilt to it.

Gal shrugs. “I can take them back, if you like.”

Dorian looks at him like he’s just suggested the sky is purple. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a decent brandy if it bit you on the backside. No, I think I’ll keep these.”

“I… I can stop, if you want. I just thought since I didn’t have to scare any Orlesians for these…”

“I suppose the smaller things aren’t such an imposition. Especially if they’re drinkable.” Dorian sighs, and then looks at Gal sidelong.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to court me.”

Gal stands his ground. “ _Do_ you know better?”

A flicker of surprise crosses Dorian’s face, then he steps into Gal’s quarters, nudging the door closed with a foot. He’s pretending at amusement, but his smile isn’t the wan smirk he often puts on. It reaches his eyes. He walks across the room to put the book and the bottle on Gal’s desk, then returns. Slips his arms round Gal’s waist and says into Gal’s ear, “Here I thought I was already wooed. _”_

“I like to make an effort,” Gal replies.

“I’ve noticed. You’re not the subtlest man in the Inquisition.” Gal’s surprised by the briefest brush of Dorian’s mouth against his cheek - a  _thank you_ , even if it’s unsaid - and then Dorian continues, “You know, one of the reasons I was looking for Gerber is his excellent dissection of traditional elemental force. I think you’ll appreciate it.” He steps away, sidles over to Gal’s desk. “Come,  _amatus._ You look like you need a distraction. _”_

Gal follows, and tries not to smile at the endearment. He wonders if Dorian realises he knows what it means. Someday, he’ll tell him.

* * *

 “How interesting. The dread magister has the Inquisitor alone and defenceless.”

Gal grunts and keeps squinting at the map, taking a swig of tea before he says, “You’re not a magister. And I could kick your arse.”

“But there are so many more interesting things you could be doing with it instead.” Dorian pauses, in what sounds like amused surprise. “Did you just choke?”

Gal puts his mug on the desk. “Think I’ve got tea all over me. At least it was cold.” He wipes his hand on his breeches and goes back to tracing the route over the Exalted Plains. Even if he’s trying not to laugh.

“Well…” The word is languid, and Gal hears Dorian cross the room. “I can think of one solution to your discomfort.”

Gal’s mouth twitches, but he focuses on the map. “Which is?”

“You ought to do something about your wet clothes.” Dorian’s hand rests on Gal’s shoulder and touches his neck.

Gal loses the battle and huffs a laugh. “Only got it on my arm…” He tries to ignore the creak of leather as Dorian moves.

“The shirt, then.” Dorian’s voice is still casual, amused. “That’ll be a good start.”

“I need to - “ Gal’s words stop at the feeling of Dorian’s mouth on his neck. “ _Dorian_.”

“You need to take a well-deserved break.” Dorian nips at his earlobe. “Also, I was there when you first devised our path. And the other four times, too. You know it like the back of your hand. That’s the sort of thing you’re good at.” A slow, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Gal’s jaw. “And this is the sort of thing  _I’m_ good at.”

“Are you normally this… blatant?” Gal manages, trying to ignore the quick hands untying his hair.

“I did mention  _alone?_ For the first time in nearly a week? Andyou’re a bad influence.” Dorian threads his fingers into Gal’s hair, gently turns Gal’s head until their eyes meet. “Terrible, in fact.”

Gal stares at the man who’s on one knee next to his desk and grinning fiendishly at him. Tries not to think about how lucky he is. Mentally starts reciting the route again, wondering why even in his head, it sounds desperate. “I might not have got it all - “

The recitation falters when Dorian tugs him into a kiss, and dies completely once Dorian deepens it. Gal ends up with his legs weak, trying not to fall out of his chair, and if there was enough room he’d probably end up pulling Dorian into his lap.

Dorian pulls away and says matter-of-factly, while Gal’s still trying to get his breath back, “We start at the Path of Flame, and then?”

“The Southern Ramparts,” Gal pants.

“Before going to the fortress with the overzealous security enchantments.” Dorian kisses him again, and this one’s gentler, softer.

“To talk to the - the sergeant. But that’s only half of it ”

“And I know you have the rest. I have every confidence in you.” Dorian leans across and slides the map slightly further away, before he says into Gal’s ear, “Have mercy on a poor wretch,  _amatus.”_

 _Cheating,_ he wants to say.  _Can’t go all “my love” every time you want something._ It’s probably cheating to say he knows what it means, too.

“I should go through the - “ Gal sighs. “Fuck it.” Then he’s kissing Dorian hard enough that he barely feels the chair give up the ghost - until they’re falling onto the floor, narrowly avoiding headbutting each other. Gal only realises afterwards that he’s curled round Dorian like he’s trying to protect him.

Dorian’s laughter is startled but real. “Very nice. I didn’t know we were sparring.” He touches Gal’s head where it’s resting on his shoulder, raising Gal’s face. “So,” he says, too seriously. “Then we turn left to begin the journey to the Citadel - “

"You’re right,” Gal says. “Got the route down.” He kisses Dorian again, feeling that low laughter against his chest.

They realise later that the map and some of the tea have ended up on the floor - but it’s a long time later, and they don’t much care.


	26. Ironically, Zombie Spider

“ _ARGH!_ ”

There’s the clanking of mail as a guard flees rather rapidly down the corridor. Dorian frowns, reaching for his staff and readying it as he eases the door of his quarters open - 

He sees nothing. No rifts, no demons…

“It  _waved_ at me! Swear to Andraste, it fucking  _waved_ at me!” someone gasps, and the clanking grows louder as the guard… returns?

“Make sense, man! Slow down and tell me what’s happened. And sheathe your sword before you hurt someone.”

Dorian heaves a mental sigh as he hears their illustrious commander. However, Cullen sounds as baffled and irritated as he is, so this might not be quite so ba -

“The Vint!” the guard cries, rounding the corner and waving a sword down the corridor, in his general direction. “The fucking blood mage did this! I swear…”

Cullen sighs, too, coming to a stop behind the soldier. “There are wards. If he’d attempted any sort of blood magic - “

“Yes,” Dorian chips in sarcastically, “thank you for the show of trust.” He ignores Cullen’s  _You know that’s not what I meant_ glare and looks at the soldier. “You might want to put that away, before you take someone’s eye out. And possibly explain.”

“The… the…” The guard’s eyes widen, and the man begins to tremble.

Dorian spots it at the same time. A very pale, very post-mortal spider lowers itself on a piece of webbing by the window, and then pauses. As if looking at them and assessing the situation.

“…Ah.” Dorian tilts his head. “Yes, I see you’ve met Fluffy. I’d primed this for random appearances at any mention of my sleeping habits or locations, aspersions on the marital status of my parents, or” - he raises an eyebrow - “speculation on me being  _maleficarum.”_ He crosses the corridor, to where the spider retreats slightly but doesn’t run. The spirit obviously respects its master. “Here I thought the spell would have long worn off. Resilient, aren’t you?” he says quietly, crouching and looking into eight ghostly, rather surprised eyes.

“This was a… prank?” Cullen asks, his voice rising. He’s evidently warming himself up for a decent rant.

“Of course not. More of a… lesson to the troops. And a protection of the Inquisitor’s dignity. If I recall, it had similar prompts for him.” Dorian smiles at the guardsman, and if it’s wolfish… well. No-one points it out. “And a reminder not to say such things  _when I can hear them from the other side of the door_. Have a little dignity. Wait until the tavern like everyone else, yes?” 

The pale guard nods.

“We can’t have this” - Cullen’s lip curls - “ _thing_  running round, causing chaos amongst the troops.”

Dorian sighs. "You’re quite right. It wouldn’t hurt anyone - I doubt it could, it would be outside the limits of its binding - but… yes. It shouldn’t even have form, by this point. Usually a spirit mark is a one-time thing. It must have a startling amount of will.” That he understands. 

He reaches out, beckons, and the spider comes towards him. He touches it, once, and then it freezes and disappears.  

The guard shudders audibly.

“Happy?” Dorian says.

The guard just stares at Cullen, who, after a moment, nods, not seeming quite sure what to say. Cullen turns to the hapless soldier. “You. With me.”

With the look of a man who’s just stepped into a truly impressive pile of bronto shit and is wondering about the cleaning bill for his boots, the guard follows Cullen away.

Dorian returns to his quarters and then leans his staff against the wall, running a hand through his hair. Bloody Southerners. You’d think they’d never seen a simple  _mortalitasi_ party trick before.

Then he unweaves the cloaking spell with a wave of his hand, and a dead, cheerfully unperturbed spider crawls out of his robe pocket and settles on his desk, looking at him almost… expectantly.

“You’re a fascinating specimen,” he murmurs, staring at it.

It stares back. He almost feels as if it’s thinking the same about him.

“Don’t worry, I’m not truly calling you Fluffy. For however long you last. No creature deserves that.” He sighs, settling down on his chair and looking back to his report on the Exalted Plains. “No creature deserves idiot guardsmen, either.”

He swears the spider nods.


	27. For Now

Dorian nearly says it then. His fingers are trembling, and they’re about to march on the Arbour Wilds to face the thing of his very Tevene nightmares, with no guarantee of victory and survival. He’s standing in front of a man who kisses him without looking to see who’s watching, who admired him even after meeting his father, who smiles every time he takes his heart into his throat and says  _amatus_  and yet  _doesn’t even know what it means_. There’s an army assembling outside, and everything feels so terribly final. This may be the last opportunity they have to be alone. It feels like unforgivable cowardice not to tell the truth. And yet...

He tries to say,  _I’_ _m almost certain I_ _love you and it terrifies me that I can imagine some sort of future with you because I’m not used to any of this, but I’d like to be someday._ _I’d like to take certain things for granted the way you do._ But that’s too much like making promises when an impossible quest and a demon army await them.What actually comes out is:“While you should be fine, seeing as you have me at your back… do at least try not to die. Leliana would destroy me.”

Gal blinks at him, and then looks pained. “Oh.” Gal swallows. “Look, if I - If I don’t make it - “

He thinks he knows what those words are. And… not now. Not like this. 

“Don’t you  _dare_.” His voice shakes and nearly fails. “We still have things to discuss, you and I. Don’t you dare promise me  _more_ and make me think - ” He can’t, he can’t. Damn it all. He kisses Gal, then, fiercely, trying to press  _Don’t leave me_ to Gal’s mouth. He manages, after too long a pause, “If you die on me, I may have to kill you.”

Gal laughs, low and trembling slightly. “Yes ser.”

Dorian takes Gal’s face in his hands, takes one last kiss while he still can. Then he tries to regain his focus, snatches up his staff and says, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” And yes, in that moment,  _this_ is  _us._  “When you’re the great Inquisitor and I’m just some footnote in a history book. A decent one, mind you. With sub-footnotes.”

Gal snorts, even breathless as he is. “Footnote? Dorian, you’ll need your own  _volume.”_

And then they open the doors, into blinding sunlight.

 

Some time after they survive, after he begs Gal not to abandon him for the sake of knowledge – and it hurts, having to be content with the  _not knowing,_ to step away from unknown truths that could be the key to everything, but too long in the Imperium has taught him that  _unimaginable power_ and  _smarter than everyone else_ come with hefty prices, and when Gal looks him straight in the eye and then steps away from the Well, he can finally breathe again – he has a realisation.

He stands in the wreckage of a half-dead civilisation, looks at corpses and broken stone, and listens to stories of his people as  _scavengers._ He stands there and feels history and pride unravel around him, bit by bit.

It wasn’t them. For once, his countrymen and their idiot pride didn’t wade in and destroy a world, a people, a -

 _We can be better,_ he thinks, the way he always has _._ And then, abruptly:  _ **I** can make us better._

It terrifies him. He all but physically backs away, thinking of his father telling him he was made for the Magisterium, he could be great, it’s his duty, he needs to see -

 _But what if - ?_ his mind starts. And aren’t those words the worst and most insidious in existence.

_What if?_

He tries to push the thought away. When he sees Corypheus breaking through, when Gal grabs them and runs through the Eluvian, he almost manages it.

He slams gracelessly into the floor and groans in pain, biting his lip and tasting blood. He notes that the rug in this room is truly abominable and the Inquisition needs to rethink its taste – and then he realises. Gal hasn’t come through.

He looks up, palms still on the floor, and thinks,  _no,_ because Corypheus was right behind them. After everything, surely -

There’s a sound, and then a clank of armour, and a crash. There’s a muttered curse, and all Dorian can think is,  _He’s alive, then._   _Thank the Maker._

 _G_ al says, “Everyone through?”

They all grunt the affirmative, attempting to stand and mostly succeeding.

There’s the sound of a very heavy man in equally heavy armour climbing to his feet, and Gal looks at Cassandra, Sera - until his eyes meet Dorian’s, and he smiles, ever so slightly.

Dorian’s mouth runs on before he can stop it. “Oh look, you’re alive.”

“So are you,” Gal says, quietly.

Sera pipes up from behind them. “So’re we. And you’re not as sappy about us. You should… I dunno, take it to a cupboard or something.”

“Well, seeing as we’ve arrived ahead of our dear advisers… war table?” Dorian says, with increasing cheer, throwing Gal a rogueish grin.

“ _Dorian_ ,” Cassandra says, in the tone of a dragon that’s about to burn him to a cinder. He looks over his shoulder, and notes the hint of pink in her cheeks.

“No?” he tries, watching Gal try not to laugh. “Just a suggestion.”

“I think I would have preferred to die in the Wilds,” Morrigan mutters.

“We ought to get out of armour, if we’re just waiting for the others,” Gal says. There are noises of assent, and they all start the walk back to their respective quarters. Gal falls into step with Sera, and throws an arm round her shoulders. “Of course I’m sappy about you.”

Sera makes a disgusted sort of noise. “Just don’t put the  _eyes_ at me, right?”

Gal chokes in an appalled sort of way, and there’s probably a retch in there somewhere. “I would never. But if you’d died, I would have made them build you a statue.” There’s a pause. “One with two fingers up.”

Dorian can’t help himself. “Or mooning the populace.”

Sera says, “Yeah, see,  _that_  works.”

Dorian watches them walk up ahead, exhausted and blood-covered and yet still somehow bright in the sunlight, pride and something quieter, more painful, welling in his chest.  _They said he was a Marcher nobody who should have died at the Conclave._ _And in a world that lets someone like that be an Inquisitor,_ _do so much,_ _perhaps a Tevinter pariah can…_

 _No,_ he thinks, and then,  _He’s alive. Kaffas, we’re alive._ _Everything else can wait._

 

After a brief, but decent bath, he ends up lying on his bed, savouring the only half-decent patch of sunlight his quarters get, dressed but trying to make himself move and put his leathers on. He aches from the fight, and the simplicity of cloth is soothing, somehow. It reminds him that for a moment, he can breathe, and he isn’t about to be called out on some wild goosechase. The goose being... a very ancient, very angry magister. He winces. Now there’s an image.

He looks up when there’s a knock on the door, knowing exactly who it is. “Come on in. I’m not stopping you.”

Gal quietly steps in and closes the door behind him. He looks exhausted, and there’s a healing cut on his forehead, but he’s clean and here and oh yes,  _breathing._ “You asked for me?”

“When you had a moment, I said. You should get that seen to.” Dorian looks pointedly to the cut.

Gal shrugs. “Always have a moment for you.”

“I should be rolling my eyes. No, in fact, they should almost be falling out of my head.”

Gal crosses the room and flumps down onto the bed next to him. “Dorian.”

“I just wanted to say thank you. For surviving. For walking away from the Well, when the alternative must have been tempting.” He clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’re terribly busy, what with all the adoring followers and the army you’ll have to prepare a welcome cake for. And weren’t you meant to judge the red templars’ general, or have I found Sunday’s itinerary? It happens, sometimes - ”

Words desert him after that, because he’s being pressed to a broad, lye-scented body. He tries to think of something to lighten the mood, possibly a comment about needing to breathe sometime soon, but the world has narrowed to warm skin and a fundamental, painful relief. He tucks his face against Gal’s and inhales, closing his eyes.

He says, after a moment, “You’d think we’d be used to this. The imminent death thing, I mean.”

Gal sighs. “I used to be. Don’t know what changed.”

 _I have an idea,_ Dorian doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “You smell like embrium.”

“Might have checked on the gardens while I had the time.”

“Hmm. The great Herald, gardening. Did the Revered Mother have a heart attack?”

“She told me something about it being good for morale.”

Dorian snorts. “Of course she would.” He sighs, and reflects that a man made of muscle really shouldn’t be so comfortable. “You have to go, don’t you?”

“And you’ve got research to do.” Gal pulls away gently, and retreats to the door. When he looks back, hesitates, Dorian just gives him an imperious,  _off you go_  sort of wave, not moving from his horizontal recline. Gal leaves, but does it with a smile.

Dorian tries to push aside the thoughts that enter his head. They’ll probably die long before any of it becomes relevant; there’s no reason to consider it. For now, he can have this.

 

 

But that night, lying in Gal’s bed, he extrapolates, because that’s always been what he does. He takes his tentative future from where he’d locked it away in the back of his mind. He unspools that future ahead of him, thinks  _if_ and  _then_  and  _but_ and tries not to drown under the weight of them.

He thinks of leaving, heading back to sneers and old rumours and his father’s disappointment following him, constantly, and his mother drinking rather than dealing with the truth of their existence. He thinks of the inevitable,  _That’s the Pavus boy, isn’t it?_ He thinks of being laughed out of rooms, of Circle enchanters snickering behind their sleeves when they see the drunkard layabout. Of being the poor, idiotic fool who comes back with wild stories of the South and a band of heretics, of a world without slavery, of working next to elves, of… courting Southern barbarians. Of laying with the same man twice, and wasting  _amatus_ on some Marcher  _soporati_ who doesn’t even speak the language and… loves him. Perhaps. He thinks.

Unfair, really, to measure it that way. This entire thing has been an unexpected variable, a hitch in the works, a – a -

A gift. More than he ever thought he’d be allowed. And perhaps he isn’t – allowed, that is. Perhaps he never was.

He thinks of staying here. Experimenting with the rifts, waking up with the same warm body next to him, drinking with his friends. Whispers in corridors and staying in the Inquisitor’s shadow, watching his homeland rot, knowing he didn’t do all he could. The slow drifting away of everything he is.

But he’d have friends to miss him, and for once in his life, he’d be more than the resident disappointment. He’d…

He’d have this. Maker, he’d have this.

He runs a finger through Gal’s hair, watches moonlight on sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, thinks of the softness of that mouth and the way Gal’s entire face changes when it lights in a smile.

He could stay. It would be good, it would be kind, it would be… so easy _._ And he’s never been good at  _eas_ _y_ _,_ because  _easy_ is so rarely the same as  _right._ If he’d wanted to go for the less painful option, he’d have drowned himself in a bottle and watched the end of the world from the comfort of someone else’s bed.

He knows, in his heart. Perhaps he’s always known.

It was a nice dream while it lasted.

He quietly starts to climb out of the preposterously-sized bed. He has both legs out from under the blankets when he hears Gal mumble his name and then ask, “Something wrong?”

He pauses, and then looks over his shoulder. “Nothing. Go back to sleep,  _amatus.”_ He tastes the word in his mouth, lets himself feel the truth of it, as he touches his hand to Gal’s forehead, briefly strokes back some of that sleep-rumpled mane.

Then he puts on his boots and leaves, thinking that he used to be so much better at sneaking out of men’s beds. He’s been here too long.

He thinks he’s going to drink. Instead, he ends up leaning against the library window, watching dawn bleed into the sky and trying to become used to loneliness again. He hasn’t missed it.

 

 

“You all right?”

He looks up from his book, and knows that he must seem tired. He’s run his hands through his hair enough times while thinking over his options that it’s probably a mess, one that would frighten the Orlesians – though that’s rarely a bad thing. He considers undoing a few more buckles and "accidentally" sauntering past the Revered Mother, just to give her a conniption, and the thought is cheering.

Gal, on the other hand, looks much better, leaning against the shelves and regarding him with nothing more than gentle curiosity. Trust. “You didn’t come back to bed. Wondered if you’d got caught up in something.”

He attempts to smile. “I find all this concern for my welfare rather touching, but is there a reason for it?”

Gal takes a few more steps and stands next to his chair, glancing out of the window before looking back to him with the hint of a smile. “Not like it's sudden.”

All at once, Dorian feels as if his heart is in his throat. “I see. Like that, is it?” When Gal just raises an eyebrow, amused, he continues, “I was just researching. Considering some options for flushing out the Venatori. It’s all usually tedious enough to send me to sleep, but… not last night. I thought I’d let you get some rest.” He pauses, looks up at Gal, and says, “By the way, I continue to be glad you’re alive and also not an agent of some elven goddess. The alternative would put a dampener on things.”

Gal’s mouth twitches. “I agree.”

He glances back to his book, briefly, gathering his words, and then says, “Do you ever wonder whether things would have been better without all… this? A quiet life. Some sort of cottage or hideously adorable mongrel, or woodcutting in a village, or whatever your heart desired.”

“The woodcutting was only for a year. And I was running from the Chantry, or from my parents. I was never going to have a quiet life.” Gal looks at him levelly, but there’s something gentle in it, too. “Don’t think you were made for one either.”

“You’re quite right. What about me screams ‘quiet,’ exactly?” He sighs. “I just meant that… it must be so easy, not knowing you could be more, do more. You could have had a life without the Inquisition. An easier one, maybe. Doesn’t that  _bother_ you?”

Gal shrugs. “Not really. And this has given me… good things, too.” He glances at Dorian, then away just as quickly. He pauses, and seems to consider it. “And it’s not like there was anyone else lining up to do it, either. Might as well be me. No-one else could.”

Dorian rubs a hand over his forehead, absentmindedly smooths his moustache, knowing it must be wilting. “I… Forgive me. I blame tiredness for making me morbid.”

“You’re a necromancer. Part of the job description.”

Dorian barks a laugh, and puts the book aside, standing. “Good point. However, I’m sorry for not being there. It meant I missed what’s probably my favourite sight in the morning.”

Next to him, Gal gazes out of the library window, looking genuinely thoughtful, and then nods. “Glad of the balcony. You can almost see out to the Hinterlands.”

Dorian stares, thinking that Gal’s not usually this dense. Maybe the head wound was more severe than they thought. “Yes,” he says dryly, taking Gal’s head in his hands and stepping around him until their eyes meet, stroking a thumb over Gal’s cheek. “The balcony.”

Gal looks at him with surprise and dawning, pleased realisation, and then it becomes a smile that’s almost blinding.

 _Go south?_ they said.  _It’s nothing but swamps and barbarians. They’ll burn you as soon as look at you. What do you expect to find?_

 _Not this,_ he thinks.  _Never this._

He steps back, and it feels like loss.

 

 

The conversation happens eventually, because it must. He’s put it off long enough, and he knows he’s beginning to seem distracted. Distracted is acceptable – frequent, even, what with the amount of magical mishaps and cultural barriers he so often finds here; there’s so much to consider, to try and understand – but  _distant_ is another matter.  _Distant_  can be cruel, and distant is the mage in his study, drawing maps of the future and his grand plans for conquest and lineage, not looking up to see the people around him leaving. Distant is cold, and he’s never been good at cold, no matter how much he’s tried to practice. That’s gotten him in trouble enough times.

He tries to put together the words as Gal watches him expectantly. “What happened at the elven temple – it’s got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. When this is all over. If we survive.” He lays it all out, the thoughts he’s been having. The dreams he’s been turning over, again and again, staring at the ceiling. Not just now – for years, really. But he’d never thought there might be a way...

For a moment, he almost misses that inscrutable Chantry calm, and the five layers of war paint - the Gal in front of him is barefaced, and briefly looks like he’s been slapped, all wide-eyed, pale pain. “You’d just… leave? What about… us?”

And there it is, the most difficult question, yet somehow the easiest to answer. Dorian inhales, and decides, for one of few times in his life, to be entirely serious. “Trust me,  _amatus,_ it would give me no pleasure to leave your side. But,” and he knows the truth of the words as he says them, “you make life-changing decisions every day. How can I not consider some of my own?”

Gal frowns. “You said the Temple. Why then? Seems like you’ve been thinking this a long time.”

Dorian tells him of standing in a pile of broken history and knowing that the Imperium had to understand the truth. To stop priding itself on death and destruction and fabulous silks above common decency. To face the truth of what it truly is, and what it can be.

Gal watches him with something bright, something… proud. It hurts to see, finds an answering echo in his chest. He remembers that look from after that mess with his father, but this is more, if possible. Something deeper and altogether quieter.

He realises that silence has fallen after his fine, noble declaration of change; Gal is silent, thinking, head downturned.

When Gal looks up, those eyes are wide and blue and frighteningly earnest. “You’re right. You wanted to change things.” Gal swallows. “You could do great things. You’re... brilliant. Always were. And I’m not going to force you to stay here. It’s not like I haven’t seen the way people talk to you, or how much less you have here, or… the things I’ve read about alti. The things you could do. If you want to.” He pauses and flounders, attempts to be the strong, certain Herald again. It’s strange to be able to the see the act, the careful rearranging of his face that wasn’t nearly as obvious before, when Dorian thought him unreadable.

Dorian waits for the  _But…_ For the argument, or the anger, or the quiet breaking of ties.

Instead, Gal offers, “I could go with you. If you’d like me to.”

Dorian tries not to stare. For some reason, he hadn’t expected such a thing, but of course, Gal, with no home to go back to and that terrible, easy  _earnestness;_ Gal, who will do anything for a friend, never mind… more. Of course. For a moment, he wants it, fiercely, damn any thought of being careful or the political risks, or any of what he was taught. The thought of that quiet, solid calm at his back and those dependable arms, even back North? Maker, he wants that more than he can say.

And yet he imagines watching Gal wilt, day by day, alone and uncertain. Imagines receiving the blithe letter one day telling him of the inevitable assassination, or even simply being in the Inquisitor’s shadow once again, having doors closed on him at every turn.

He knows. No. Some things simply can’t be.

“Leave all this? I can’t ask that of you. And besides, much as it would amuse me to see my homeland beaten into submission, this is something  _I_ have to do.” And there it is, the simplest truth. It will take one of their own to break it all down from the inside. Someone who can say the right words, play the right games, wear the right titles, profit off an old and noble family name.

It’ll take him.

He expected a fight, perhaps. An argument, a declaration of what exactly this thing between them is, or… something. Instead, Gal looks at him with that dull-eyed resignation that’s so familiar, and he realises where he’s seen it before: the siege at Haven. That quiet acceptance of pain. “If that’s what you have to do… I understand.”

His heart is sinking in his chest. Perhaps, he realises, he wanted a fight. He’s never had someone fight to keep him before. An arrogant desire, yes, but… novel. Important, maybe.

Gal smiles, and it’s wholly unconvincing. “You’re right. You should go.” Then it’s gone, and back in its place is that silent, unnerving blankness. He glances down the stairs. “Morrigan asked to speak to me. I’ll… see you.”

Dorian opens his mouth, tries to say something that might fix this, even if it can’t be fixed. Not really. “Ask her if she’s got a recipe for that mana resilience potion. It works wonders.”

Gal nods, and then leaves, silently as a shadow.

 

 

Hours pass. Night falls, and eventually Dorian finds himself back in the library, trying to focus on the notes in front of him. Prolonged effects of red lyrium. Yes. Instead he shifts, restless, and tries not to think of this morning.Tries not to think of Gal’s easy acceptance, the quickness with which he was happy to let him go.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps.

“I lied,” Gal says quietly, standing on the other side of the desk, cheeks shadowed by candlelight.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, trying to find his bearings. “About what?”

“About you leaving.” Gal’s eyes close, and he looks away, leaning a hand on the desk, putting another to his forehead. “…Fuck.” He seems unsteady on his feet, and it’s strange to see, even if it isn’t the first time: it’s akin to watching a great oak sway in the breeze, suddenly, worryingly fallible.

“Have you been drinking?” Dorian asks. A stupid question, really: as he straightens, walks around the desk, he can smell the ale. Not that that’s saying much: the scent can probably be picked up in Antiva.

Gal nods, ashamed, resigned.

Dorian keeps his voice soft, even in his confusion. “What isthis?” And what was so difficult to say that it needed intoxication to even make an attempt?

“I wanted to smile and wave you off, or… I wanted to be better.” Gal inhales, bracing himself, and then looks up. Their eyes meet. Gal says desperately, “Please. After all this, if there’s a way… stay. At least for a little longer.”

“Gal…”

“I want you to do it, I… I... don’t want to keep you here if you shouldn’t be, but – I need you. At least until we close the rifts, or...” Gal mutters something _. “_ Long as you can. Long as you want, whatever you want.”Gal sways,and falls back against the bookshelves, his eyes closing. “I… Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Dorian tries to breathe. “I’m not sure I can. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say some of this before, when you could  _stand?_ ”

Gal’s eyes open, slowly, and focus on him. “Because I meant what I said.” Warm hands come up to cup Dorian’s face and probably destroy his hair entirely, gentle even with their owner’s unsteadiness. “So proud of you. Brave. But fuck, I’ll miss you.”

Then Gal’s pushing away from the shelves, starting a long-legged, unsteady walk back down the stairs.

Dorian stares after him, tries to say something. Loses… whatever it was.

He blinks once, twice, too rapidly, and decides that it’s time to have a drink or ten.

 

 

Too much whisky later, by the time he’s swaying up the stairs to Gal’s quarters, his head is somewhat clearer. Or foggier. He has a few thoughts arranged in his head, visions of what he’ll say, even though some are blurrier than others. He has a faint idea, at least.

He knocks on the door, and it opens to reveal a frowning, only mostly-awake Gal.

“Look, there’s something I...” Dorian begins. And then he pauses, and stares.

Perhaps it’s the pillow-crease on Gal’s face, or the fact that even in a bloody freezing winter fortress, the man only ever seems to sleep in trousers. Perhaps it’s the half-tattoo peeking out from Gal’s waistband, something small and familiar that no-one else truly knows about. Perhaps it’s the way Gal visibly brightens at the sight of him, even through tiredness and half a beard. Perhaps it’s the whisky.

Perhaps… It could be so many things. Or everything.

All he knows is that he doesn’t even manage to complete the sentence before he’s throwing himself across the space and kissing Gal desperately, deeply, plastering himself to Gal’s chest and getting a hand on the back of Gal’s head to pull him closer.

Gal doesn’t even hesitate before kissing him back.

Dorian can’t make himself care about the unshavenness and the taste of ale, knowing he must be as bad; all his brain can manage is some combination of  _real_ and  _Gal_ and  _keep this_ and _please,_ _please_.

It’s a white-knuckled thing. He manages to flail a hand behind him to close the door, and then he’s being pressed against it. He kisses Gal’s cheek, his eyebrow, the line of ink on his nose, anywhere he can reach; nips at Gal’s earlobe, briefly, a sharp reminder that he’s hereand not across an ocean.

“Dorian,” Gal says, roughly.

“ _Amatus.”_ Dorian breathes the word against Gal’s throat, kissing the skin there and feeling the way Gal trembles. He works at Gal’s trousers with fumbling fingers, unable to stand not touching him, trying to memorise the skin under his fingers and the breath next to his ear, the warmth of the man who’s holding him.

“Stay.” It’s an exhalation, too, as though Gal’s had the word dragged out of him. A plea. Gal freezes and looks at him after saying it, as if wanting to take it back.

“For you, anything,” Dorian says, before he can help himself.

And then Gal’s lifting him off his feet entirely, and his back hits the door. He should care about that, really, or consider that he’ll miss this, that he’s never been with anyone else who could do it. Or they should talk this through, sit down and discuss it like the rational, semi-drunk adults they are -

Instead he clings to Gal, who kisses him like a man drowning.

In the end, they don’t even make it to the bed.

 

 

The rug in here is rather more impressive than the one in the Eluvian room; perks of being the Inquisitor, he supposes. It’s comfortable, even if he has the vague thought that he’s probably too old for this kind of thing. He’s tired, he can feel it, and yet he’s almost afraid to sleep. If he sleeps, he won’t be able to feel Gal lying beside him, and the way that he’s  _here,_ not in some lordling’s summer mansion.

“ _Amatus?”_ he says.

“Mm?” Gal’s mostly asleep, face half-submerged in the rug, and doesn’t open his eyes.

“I’m a bloody fool, aren’t I?”

“Good man,” Gal mumbles. “Just a fucking idiot sometimes. Best fucking idiot I’ve met.”

Dorian laughs at that, unable to help himself, and reaches out, managing to grab one of the blankets from the bed they ought to be in – but that would require moving, and he’s drunk and tired and most importantly, he doesn’t want to. He drags the blanket over both of them, tries to shake it out slightly and eventually gives up. He settles down, staring at the ceiling, fingers tracing over Gal’s shoulder.

It almost startles him when Gal speaks. “They’ll be lucky to have you. Nearly as lucky as me.”

“That is, if we survive this,” Dorian says airily. “If there’s one thing our time here has taught me to be wary of, it’s guarantees.”

Gal grunts, acknowledging that. “Did you mean what you said? That after Corypheus, we’d talk?”

Dorian swallows. “I meant it,” he says. It’s all he can say.

“Am I your... port in a storm?” The words are low, and there’s an edge of pain to them, not quite hidden.

“What?  _No._ You’ve _n_ ever been that.”

Gal says, half-into the rug, “Good. Told you. Not mine either.”

Dorian tries not to let the world make him a liar. “Let’s just focus on getting through this alive first. And if we do, I’ll think about it. Staying on, I mean.” He feels a warm hand on top of his, and at first thinks that he’s irritated Gal and he’s being told to stop pawing him – then calloused fingers wrap around his, and stay there. He wonders if he’ll ever be used to that. Probably not.

Gal murmurs, “See you in the morning?”

Dorian smiles. “I told you. I wouldn’t want to miss waking up to my favourite sight.”

He drifts to sleep with steady breathing next to him and Gal still holding his hand, and his last full thought is that for now, perhaps Tevinter can wait.


	28. Not A Blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when musicalheart168 needed fluff that doesn't have bittersweetness or tons of sad pining in it, and I realise that this series is about to turn a year old. 2k of no-one being sad. Honest.

Gal stops at the clearing of Josephine's throat, and turns back to look at her.

She pauses in her paperwork and says, "Dorian requests your presence." Worrying. It's not usually an asking thing. "He did say that he thought you might make… that face. He also hastens to clarify that it isn't an urgent matter." She ducks her head slightly. "But I have made room in your itinerary."

It's a gentle suggestion from Josephine, which means he should listen. And that he's probably missing something important. He frowns. "Where is he?"

"He said to turn left at the lightning-struck oak outside Skyhold. And that you'd recognise it." When he opens his mouth, she half-smiles at him. "And yes, we will know where to find you if any important matter demands your presence."

He shuts up, and tilts his head, considering it. He remembers a clearing where he closed a rift. He thought it'd be a good place to camp – water, and quiet. He remembers sneaking off so that Dorian could demonstrate some... rarer uses of ice magic, and spending the afterglow asking questions about the arcane forces until Dorian had to give up and show him the proper spells, muttering about not letting a man rest but laughing all the same. He remembers coming back, too: Dorian not even pretending they weren't sharing a tent, and not saying it was just for convenience's sake, either.

He nods. "Thank you." He starts to turn towards the great hall and the doors to the courtyards.

"You're going… in leathers?"

He stops and frowns down at himself. "Is something wrong with that?"

"No, I..." She sounds like she's trying not to sigh. "I commend your… prioritisation of safety. It wouldn't do to lose the Inquisitor when we've come so far."

He takes another glance at what he's wearing. He tugs gently at his collar. "I've got a decent shirt under this."

"The blue?"

He nods, and mutters under his breath, "Brings out my eyes." He hopes she missed it. She's a good woman, but one with too much blackmail material already.

"Yes," she responds, with a laugh in it. "He's right on that."

He keeps the colour in his cheeks down as he leaves - just. Chantry training, and stubbornness.

It's only a few minutes until he's stepping over tree roots, walking into the clearing, and seeing something on the ground. He frowns at… an Inquisition banner, one of the large ones? He knew they had a few spare, but...

Then he spots what look like plates and a couple of goblets. And the mage sitting with a book, who looks up and grins at him. "Didn't take you long, I see."

Gal sits next to him and surveys it all. "Is this… a picnic?"

Dorian frowns like that was an insane question. "I despise picnics. Or anything involving" - he grimaces - "the outdoors. This is simply me, some food and a... blanket. Of sorts."

"...A picnic," Gal reiterates.

The grimace intensifies; it's exaggerated, and fades to something gentle and amused. "If you must."

Gal scratches his chin. He only shaved a few hours ago, and the stubble's already starting to come back in. He looks at the… spread? "Not complaining. I just… what's this in aid of?"

Dorian stares at him, eyebrows raising. "You really don't know, do you?" He snorts at Gal's headshake. "Well, for a start, I haven't actually seen you today."

Gal raises a brow back, and counters, "Since this morning."

Dorian neatly closes the book and puts it aside with a motion that says this is a just another day in the library, avoiding grass and dirt without seeming to think about it. It's strange to see out here, and in all the places they tramp through, no matter how normal it should be after all the camps and tents. The book's something about arcane geometry and glyphs, bound in maroon leather. "This morning doesn't count," he says easily.

Gal just looks back with the _Go on_ expression he's had a lot of practise with since they met. It usually gets him a straight answer. Or at least an interesting one.

"I was half-asleep and you only mumbled a goodbye. And even if it's only brief, I see you every morning." Dorian says it, and then pauses. He looks like he's debating whether to worry about it.

"Almost like this is some sort of relationship," Gal says gently, with a half-smile.

"Hm. That." Dorian's mouth twitches. He's mocking himself, in his head. And Gal. Mocking Gal would be better. When he looks back to Gal, his smile is small but genuine. Barely any self-recrimination, just amusement.

Gal examines what might be lunch, and starts to reach towards an apple. "I did more than mumble. I had to debate you before I could get to my meeting."

"Me trying to drag you back into bed doesn't count either. That's just routine."

"I should've let you. Nearly fell asleep in the meeting. Mine planning." He looks up at a creak of leather, the sound of shifting cloth.

Dorian's closer now, watching him. "You still haven't figured out why you're here, have you?" There's a softness in his eyes, something coaxing. "They really are working you too hard.” There’s a sigh and a trace of worry in the joke, fast-hidden. It always is, with Dorian. “Here. Let me illustrate. They campaigned for cake, but I said this was far better. And less bone-dry. Also, honey. Always a plus."

Gal blinks as a plate's pushed in front of him. There's some kind of pastry on it. "You're out of gloves," he manages.

"Yes, I am. Because this isn't a mission." Dorian pulls something small out of his pocket, sticks it into the pastry, and then clicks his fingers. He lights the… candle with a flourish and, then watches Gal expectantly. "Ring any bells?"

The candle.

Gal stares at it, and says very quietly, but with feeling, "Fuck."

"My thoughts exactly. You forgot your own _birthday?_ "

"In the Chantry, we didn't really… and then there was always a week-long production and more girls… Mum's parties. They weren't about my birthday. Even if she said..." Gal swallows, and looks up, meeting Dorian's eyes. "Who told you?"

"Interesting story, that. I received a letter from some friend of yours. She said she'd known you in the Chantry and that… what was it... ‘if they're going to drag him round by the glowy hand, the least the Inquisition can do is give a fuck about his birthday.' What else was it… ‘no birth, no fancy Herald.’ She has a rather distinctive turn of phrase, I can see why you like her. There was also something about us... knocking boots.” He says it with relish. “Now there's one I haven't heard in a while."

Gal mumbles into his palm, "I said I was going to tell her."

"Yes, you did. I admit, it slipped my mind, I was trying to disassemble a Venatori staff at the time. And stop that." Gentle, calloused fingers take his hand away, and settle under his chin. They raise his face until he looks at Dorian, who says, "That was the first laugh I'd had in about four hours. She also said you wouldn't be brave enough to bring it up yourself." Dorian inclines his head towards the pastry.

Gal remembers the candle, then, and moves to blow it out before wax gets on good food. "I forgot. I promise."

Dorian removes the candle. "The worst thing is, I believe you. Haven't you ever taken some time to do something selfish, to just… enjoy being alive? Making it to another year?"

Gal shrugs. "I do that with you. It's not about the day."

Dorian pauses. His shoulders tense, slight but there. He tosses the candle aside, after a delay where it looks like he has to remember, and he peers at Gal. "I'm your selfish thing?" His expression is sceptical, maybe wry, but his eyes are bright and surprised. They always tell the truth.

"Not selfish if it makes me better. Or keeps me alive. Or if it's a person. But when I'm..." Gal swallows, tries to make his tongue be less stupid. "I'm glad I'm here."

"So am I." Dorian's voice is hushed, startled when he repeats, "Maker, so am I." He takes Gal's hand and presses a kiss to it, slow and with feeling in it.

 _I love you,_ Gal thinks. He decides not to say it when he'll sound like he's been bribed by food. (It's not the food. It's the… everything.)

Dorian says afterwards, "So. Thirty. There goes my fashionable young bedwarmer." He sounds casual, but his hand is still wrapped round Gal's, his thumb rubbing circles against Gal's knuckles like the scars and old breaks don't even matter.

Gal snorts. "Five months younger than you. Usually my bed."

"And I keep it _very_ warm." Dorian pauses, brow furrowing, and says in mock-horror, " _Kaffas,_ I've just realised my thirty-first is probably going to be in a freezing backwater. Tell me a terror or… some bear that gets past Cassandra will kill me first."

"I’d rather you survived and we got an extra firepit. Or I'll get Erren to knit you something. Say it's requisitions." Gal laughs at the shudder that gets. "...Or I could ask Dagna about a warmth enchantment on your robes."

"That'll do," Dorian says, pointed and wary. He draws back. "Come, eat before your decrepitude gets the better of you."

Gal shakes his head and tries not to roll his eyes, but starts to pour out some wine for himself. He's not surprised Dorian's already started the bottle.

"I still can't believe you forgot." Dorian sighs. "Josephine said you probably wouldn't want to ‘make a fuss.' As if that isn't what we do best – according to the Chantry, anyway. And your birthday is a time when even the most austere southerners have licence to do it. She awaits your opinion on whether we and the others should gather for a quiet drink or ten in the Rest." There's a silence. " _Amatus_ , you're staring. Have I poisoned you?"

Gal realises he's paused and he's just holding the bottle, like an idiot. He puts it down a way away. "I'm not..." His voice fails and he shuts his mouth. He clears his throat, tries again. "I'm not used to this." He tries to find the words to explain. "I'm… out of practice. There was the Chantry, and there was Erren, but then there were the years where I travelled, and then I thought she'd died at the Conclave. And then I was a prisoner. I thought being alone was the only thing I was good at." He keeps his eyes on the brightness of the... blanket, focuses on the warmth of the man next to him. "But the people here… you… I'm beginning to wonder."

Dorian's voice is so quiet that it instantly makes Gal look at him. "So am I. About myself, in this case. I'm usually thinking about myself." He runs a hand over his mouth, and half-grins.

"Bollocks," Gal says.

"Those too."

"Not what I meant."

Dorian says, "I know. I'm not used to this either. But I'm enjoying the change. Immensely." He swallows. "You're good at a great many things, but solitude doesn't have to be one of them." He considers Gal, assessing. "You know, you could at least try to relax."

Gal laughs. "I _am_ relaxed."

Dorian reaches over and unbuckles the high collar on Gal's leathers, loosening it. "There. That's a good start." He pauses. "Maker, have you actually left your shield behind?"

Gal points a thumb to where he's put it down a couple of feet away, along with his sword.

"Ah. I should have known. So you haven't been possessed. Happy birthday, _amatus._ " With that, Dorian pulls Gal into a kiss.

A short brush of mouths shouldn't have so much in it, be so much. It's as fervent as any words. Gal shifts a little closer, trying not to disturb the banner and knock anything over – fuck, Cullen will either kill them or laugh at them and pretend not to in that quiet Fereldan way – and runs his hand over Dorian's cheek, savours the warmth and the kiss.

Dorian pulls away and says, "I'm told there might be a present waiting for you when we get back."

With a raised eyebrow, Gal starts, "Is that - ?"

"No, I don't mean sex. Stop looking so hopeful. Not that I'd protest to the sex, but… no. Actual presents. And yes, more than one. Only the barest things, the Inquisition budget won't stretch too far... You look like someone's hit you round the head."

Gal feels himself grin.

"Yes, definitely a head injury. That's it, I've broken the Inquisitor - " He pauses and inhales sharply when Gal kisses his cheek.

"Thank you," Gal says, against his skin.

"Yes, well. It's my duty as a member of the Inquisition. I’m going to make sure this is the best birthday you've ever had."

"Already is."

"Stop that. You'll put me off the food." But Dorian sneaks an arm around Gal's waist, and holds him tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A mutual and I were wondering about the nameday/birthday thing. Apparently nameday only gets used by dwarves, and there are several instances of "birthday" throughout canon. Today I learned something!)

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to mention: I have [a Tumblr](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com). Over there you can find more about these two idiots, headcanon stuff, WIP info, drabbles from further on in the timeline, and so on. And generalised Dragon Age squeeing. If that's your sort of thing, feel free to come and say hello.


End file.
